THE   MODERNISTS 


ROBERT  NORWOOD 


u&a 

i 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


BY 

ROBERT  NORWOOD 

Author  of  "The  Piper  and  the  Reed,"  "The 

Witch  of  Endor"  "His  Lady  of 

the  Sonnets,"  etc. 


NEWXSJ^YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 


2042029 


CONTENTS 

THE  CAVE  MAN     .     .     .     ; 12 

AKHENATON 20 

PHARAOH'S  DAUGHTER 28 

MOSES 36 

NAAMAN 42 

THE  PROPHET  OF  CHEBAR 48 

SOCRATES 54 

VASHTI 66 

BALTHAZAR  MAGUS 72 

PILATE'S  WIFE 78 

THOMAS  DIDYMUS 84 

MARY 92 

PAUL  TO  TIMOTHY 100 

PORPHYRY  TO  MARCELLA 108 

DANTE 116 

JOAN  OF  ARC 124 

GIORDANO  BRUNO 130 

DARWIN 138 

VOICE  OF  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  144 


O  Light  of  all  the  world !  Strange  cosmic  glow 
That  lit  the  mind  of  Buddha  brooding  long; 
Burned  in  the  bush  of  Horeb;  touched  the  strong, 
Pure  heart  of  Homer  and,  with  sudden  flow, 
Spilled  splendour  on  the  prophets  in  the  throe 
Of  great  words  uttered  at  the  ancient  wrong, 
Moved  unto  thunder-cadences  of  song, 
Ages  ere  Christ  was  crowned  the  King  of  woe. 

Man  on  the  scarlet  peak  of  morning  stands 
With  face  uplifted  to  the  mounting  gleam 
That  draws  him  ever  onward  to  one  goal; 
Thou  art  the  impulse  of  his  eager  hands, 
The  inspiration  of  his  eyes  that  dream, 
The  infinite  constraining  of  his  soul. 


THE  CAVE  MAN 


THE  CAVE  MAN 

IN  what  rude  age  remote  from  one  of  gold 

Found  man  the  wide  significance  of  fire? 

Then  only  did  the  guttural  tones  aspire 

To  speak  that  Word  which  from  the  days  of  old 

Till  now  hath  all  our  finite  yearnings  told. 

He  stands  to  bridge  the  gulf  'twixt  drum  and  lyre, 

Caves  and  the  domes  of  Babylon  and  Tyre, 

Who  first  saw  in  the  flame  God's  garment-fold. 

Is  not  he  Christ,  who  leaps  a  thousand  years — 
Gains  for  his  comrades  one  more  steep  ascent 
Upon  the  path  of  progress?    Therefore,  hail 
To  all  earth's  glad,  undaunted  pioneers! 
Tortured  and  slain  for  Truth,  theirs  the  content 
Of  knowing  that  through  them  she  must  prevail. 


THE   CAVE   MAN 


Eater  of  flesh, 
Eater  of  wood, 
Lapper  of  water! 
Here  is  more  wood; 
Here  is  more  flesh; 
Here  is  more  water: 
I  bow  and  kneel. 

Harken,  O  Eater! 
O  Lapper  of  water! 
O  Thou  that  shinest 
Far  in  the  night, 
High  on  the  hills, 
Over  the  plains: 
Harken,  O  Eater! 
O  Lapper  of  water! 
Something  hurts  here 
Where  there  is  beating 
Under  my  breast, 
When  I  look  up; 
When  I  look  out; 
When  I  look  down: 
Something  hurts  here, 
Back  of  these  eyes — 
Fills  them  with  water 
That  wets  my  face, 
When  I  see  Thee. 

13 


Why  dost  Thou  sting  me! 
Wilt  Thou  have  more  flesh? 
Here  is  a  young  lamb 
Torn  from  its  mother — 
List  to  its  bleating! 
See  how  the  sharp  stone 
Cuts  the  throat  open ! 
Ha!  how  the  red  blood 
Foams  for  Thee,  Eater. 

I  only  know  Thee; 
I  and  one  other: 
She  of  the  long  hair 
And  the  white  body — 
She  with  the  small  one 
Back  in  the  cave, 
Where  the  great  Roarer 
Can  not  come  near  us. 

Well  I  remember 
How  I  did  find  Thee: 
One  day  was  noise 
With  falling  of  water 
Out  of  the  sky; 
She  was  afraid, 
Crept  back  in  the  cave, 
Holding  the  small  one; 
Safe  from  the  Shaker, 
The  Cleaver  of  clouds, 
I  stood  and  watched  Thee 
Leap  through  the  darkness. 
14 


Suddenly  something 
Smote  me  to  blindness, 
Hurled  me  to  silence 
Down  on  the  rock! 
When  my  eyes  opened, 
There  was  a  Presence 
Eating  the  small  twigs 
Blown  by  the  wind 
Into  the  cave. 
I  trembled  a  moment, 
Wondered  and  watched. 
Thou  wast  a  flower 
Sprung  up  from  the  floor, 
Thy  roots  in  the  twigs 
And  out  of  them  drew 
Brightness  and  beauty. 
I  heard  Thee  make  sound 
Of  the  leaves  in  their  laughter, 
When  the  wild  wind 
Goes  frolicking  with  them; 
Of  the  streams  in  the  night, 
When  the  white  cold 
Covers  them  over. 
I  knew  Thou  wast  calling: 
"Something  to  eat!", 
Even  as  I  call: 
"Something  to  eat!", 
When  I  am  come 
Home  from  the  hunting; 
So  I  brought  branches 
15 


Out  of  the  wet 

And  gave  them  to  Thee. 

How  great  Thou  didst  grow — 

Swollen  from  eating, 

Sudden  and  noisy, 

Roaring  and  mighty — 

How  great  Thou  didst  grow! 

Thus  Thou  art  with  me, 

And  they  are  afraid — 

All  the  night-eyes 

That  float  through  the  dark — 

They  are  afraid 

And  cry  when  they  see  Thee 

Here  in  my  cave. 

Tell  me,  O  Eater! 
Why  we  are  different 
From  Big  Face 
And  Long  Arm 
Down  in  the  wood, 
Hating  our  cave: 
Theirs  not  the  sharp  stone, 
Neither  the  thrower, 
Nor  do  they  know  Thee. 
They  do  not  make  words 
That  sound  like  the  call 
Of  a  bird  on  the  bough; 
Of  a  tree  to  the  wind; 
Of  the  water  to  earth, 
When  it  falls  from  the  hill: 
16 


Words  that  she  makes, 
Holding  the  small  one 
Close  to  her  breast. 
Tell  me,  O  Eater, 
Why  her  white  body, 
Eyes  and  the  red  mouth, 
Make  me  feel  something 
Where  there  is  beating 
Under  my  breast! 
Why  am  I  white, 
Short-armed  and  tall? 
Why  am  I  broad 
Over  the  eyes? 
Why  do  we  live 
Here  in  the  cave; 
Why  do  they  live 
Low  in  the  wood? 
Tell  me,  O  Changer! 
Why  Thou  art  never — 
Never  the  same. 

Thou  art  the  Bubble 
Blown  from  the  lip 
Of  her  who  is  Night! 
Thou  art  the  blossoms 
Caught  in  the  hair 
Of  her  who  is  Night! 
Thou  art  the  Far  One- 
He  who  gets  up 
Out  of  his  bed, 
17 


Covered  with  colours; 

Rises  and  stands 

Naked  and  strong, 

Brave  on  the  hills, 

Leapeth  to  win 

Swiftly  the  top 

Of  that  which  is  sky! 

Thou  art  Big  Tooth! 

Thou  art  the  Roarer 

Made  like  a  mountain, 

Whose  legs  are  as  trees, 

Whose  footsteps  are  thunder 

The  sound  of  Thy  voice, 

When  there  is  noise 

With  falling  of  water 

Out  of  the  sky ! 

Thou  art  all  that  hath  wings! 

Thou  art  all  that  I  see 

In  her  who  is  mine, 

Holding  the  small  one 

Close  to  her  breast! 


18 


AKHENATON 


AKIIENATON 

FIRST  on  the  written  page  of  Time,  he  stands 
Forth  from  the  phantoms  of  the  reedy  Nile 
That  haunt  the  tombs  of  Pharaohs.     For  a  while 
He  dreamed,  then  woke  and  with  inspired  hands 
Made  him  a  city.     Not  with  proud  demands 
Called  he  those  pylons  up,  but  with  a  smile, 
As  of  a  brother,  helped  the  builders  pile 
Stone  upon  stone  above  the  yellow  sands. 

True  comrade  of  all  ages  and  a  Christ 

Of  those  far  centuries,  he  taught  his  day 

What  now  the  too-long  silent  years  proclaim. 

To  him  the  title — First  Evangelist, 

Who  in  confusion  of  the  tongues  could  say: 

There  is  one  God — Eternal  Love  His  name! 


20 


AKHENATON 

Come,  Nefertiti!    Let  us  leave  the  shawms 
And  throbbing  tabours  for  the  curtained  night 
Whose  canopy  is  stretched  beyond  the  Nile 
Down  to  the  desert.     What  do  we  with  sound, 
Who  know  that  silence  is  melodious? 

•         •••••* 

Behold  these  fragments  of  the  disk  of  day, 
Shattered  by  Aton  and  spread  over  space: 
The  seed  of  which  He  reaps  to-morrow's  sun! 
What  growth  is  here!    What  certainty  of  life! 
Under  the  gold  and  glory  of  the  stars, 
Lean  on  me,  Love!     tell  me  that  thou  art  glad 
Of  this  our  city. 

Thebes;  the  priests  of  Amon; 
Intrigues  of  temples  whose  dumb  idols  are 
Vain  shado wings  of  the  Ineffable; 
Forever  stand  behind  us:  we  are  free! 
Think,  Nefertiti!    We  are  free  to  find 
God  in  the  lotus,  in  the  shrub  and  vine. 
He  is  no  more  the  shadow  of  a  hand 
Held  high  and  threatening  above  the  earth; 
He  is  no  more  propitiated  Fear 
Purchased  by  blood  from  punishment  for  sin : 
He  is  the  love  that  made  me  wait  for  thee, 
Till  Ay  and  Ty,  the  foster-parents,  said — 
Dushratta's  daughter  is  of  age  and  longs 
To  know  the  touch  of  Akhenaton's  lips. 

21 


Three  feathers  now  are  fallen  from  the  wing 

Of  that  eternal,  soaring  seraph,  Time; 

Three  years  in  which  our  city  grew  a  place 

Of  palaces.     The  barge  that  brought  us  down 

From  Thebes  has  rested  at  the  pier  one  hour. 

Is  it  not  well  that  we  should  be  alone 

And  far  from  any  pretence  of  loud  pipes, 

Who  know  that  music  is  the  soul  of  form? 

What  forms  are  these!     Mark  well  yon  granite  boles- 

A  grove  of  palms  is  there — shaped  by  the  skill 

Of  Bek  and  Auta  who  transfigure  rock 

To  ordered  aisles  of  tapered  monoliths. 

Bek  is  a  mighty  builder.     He  has  made 

This  palace  of  the  pillared  porticoes, 

Fronting  the  disk  of  Aton  where  it  blooms 

Like  one  great  scarlet  poppy  of  the  east, 

Or  folds  its  petals  slowly  to  the  night. 

I  dreamed  this  lovely  garden  that  he  grew — 

Obedient  and  eager  on  my  word — 

This  garden  into  which  we  now  descend 

To  wander  mid  the  fountains  and  the  flowers. 

Shall  we  disturb  the  bulbul  on  the  bough 
And  bid  him  sing?    or  are  these  thin  cascades 
That  pour  from  pool  to  pool  past  marble  brims 
A  sweeter  song?     Pause  here  and  let  me  pluck 
This  lotus,  like  a  moon  within  the  fountain; 
Upon  each  flattened  petal  there  are  pearls — 
I  shake  them  on  Queen  Nefertiti's  hair! 
The  poppies  are  empurpled  by  the  night; 

22 


How  they  will  laugh  with  scarlet  lips  at  dawn: 
Sweet  poppies,  ye  are  Nefertiti's  lips 
Pressed  close  to  mine — as  now!  .  .  . 

Wilt  thou  sit,  Love? 
Here  is  a  little  throne  of  marble  shaped 
By  Auta  for  his  queen.     What  cunning  work 
Of  chisel  on  the  stone!     How  every  line 
And  whorl  is  emulous  of  patterned  stars 
Laid  out  by  Aton  for  the  sculptor's  craft! 
New  art  is  in  the  work  of  Auta's  hand. 
He  will  transform  the  lifeless,  flat  profile 
Of  Egypt's  ancient,  dreamless  sculpturing 
To  love  and  laughter  imaged  on  the  wall, 
Or  padestalled  beneath  our  porticoes. 
The  little  throne,  my  Love,  is  incomplete: 
Our  daughter  Merytaton  is  to  stand 
Forever  virgin,  wrought  of  porphyry; 
Her  body  the  right  pillar  and  one  arm 
Touching  the  back  shaped  like  a  lotus  leaf, 
At  left  is  Meketaton,  while  the  babe 
Anksenpaaton  is  above  thy  head, 
Held  by  the  lotus  .  .  . 

At  thy  feet  comes  rest. 

Remove  my  crown.     Make  me  forget  the  King. 
I  would  lose  sight  of  Pharaoh  in  the  man — 
The  man  who  loves  a  woman  on  her  throne! 
O  Nefertiti !     there  is  deathlessness 
Within  our  love.     This  night  I  know  that  we 

23 


Fared  forth  together,  hand  in  hand,  across 
The  star-lit  spaces  of  the  bending  sky, 
Or  ever  Aton  flung  this  little  globe 
Behind  His  shoulder  and  invited  us 
To  lose  ourselves  on  it  that  we  might  find 
Still  greater  love  through  limiting  of  life. 
There  is  no  God  but  Aton — He  who  dwells 
Here  in  His  splendour;  finds  Himself  in  us; 
Speaks  with  our  speech :  the  while  from  sun  to  sun 
He  streams  in  glory,  as  yon  river  pours 
In  never-failing  flood  down  to  the  sea. 
I  found  thee  and  will  keep  thee,  O  my  Queen! 
Somewhere  before  the  scattering  of  stars, 
Deep  in  the  silence  of  a  dreamful  peace 
Above  the  roar  of  new-created  worlds. 
This  star,  O  Heart!   is  but  a  halting  place — 
A  trysting  of  two  souls  that  keep  the  faith — 
A  field  on  which  our  spirit-hands  let  fall 
Seed  for  the  growing  of  eternal  flowers. 
How  often  have  I  lost  thee,  O  my  Love! 
I,  Akhenaton,  have  been  sunk  in  sleep 
Lulled  by  a  host  of  crooning  centuries. 
I  knew  the  forest  and  I  found  the  hills 
Ages  ere  Thebes  was  pillared  near  the  Nile 
And  there  was  trafficking  upon  the  stream 
Past  Memphis.     All  the  lesser  forms  of  earth : 
Shrub,  beast  and  bird,  barbarian  and  slave, 
Has  Akhenaton  known;  rising  through  them 
In  aspiration  of  thy  woman's  soul; 
Drawn  upward  through  the  night  to  meet  the  morn 

24 


Still  must  I  lose  thee,  wail  and  want  thee,  Love! 
Go  through  the  deserts;  make  all  mountains  mine; 
Gain  strength  through  struggle  and  be  purified. 
It  is  ordained  that  sometimes  we  shall  meet 
And  pass,  not  knowing  that  we  met;  ordained 
That  I  shall  speak  the  word  to  thee  in  vain, 
For  thou  shalt  be  a  maid  of  many  dreams 
From  which  my  voice  would  only  frighten  thee: 
But,  Nefertiti,  all  the  paths  we  tread 
In  loneliness  and  pain  converge  at  last — 
Oh,  with  what  love  and  laughter  we  shall  meet! 


PHARAOH'S  DAUGHTER 


PHARAOH'S  DAUGHTER 

VOICES  of  prophets  pleading  for  the  light, 
Songs  of  glad  minstrels  making  joyous  sound, 
Blood  of  brave  martyrs  crying  from  the  ground, 
Woe  of  all  women  weeping  through  the  night, 
Bear  witness  to  the  truth :   There  is  a  might 
Greater  than  bannered  armies;  a  profound 
Vaster  than  thought  or  earth's  diurnal  round, — 
One  holy,  one  unalterable  Right! 

For  this  a  princess  dared  a  king's  decree, 
Found  shelter  for  a  babe  lost  in  the  reeds, 
And  gave  a  palace  for  a  peasant's  hut 
To  him  who  on  the  granite  tables  cut 
Laws  that  outlast  the  pyramids — who  heeds 
Time  in  the  face  of  such  eternity? 


28 


PHARAOH'S   DAUGHTER 

Reeds  only  and  a  fleet  of  lotus-leaves 

Sailing  through  them,  as  though  to  take  walled  Thebes! 

Oh,  how  I  hate  yon  hot,  white  splendour — Thebes! 

Here  by  the  stream,  let  me  forget  those  eyes — 

Eyes  of  the  women  who  have  been  defiled. 

0  Fairy  Fleet!     take  me  a  prisoner; 
Bear  me  away  among  the  bending  reeds, 
Past  all  the  temples  and  the  palaces; 
Make  me  forget  the  whiplash  and  the  cry 

Of  slaves;  make  me  forget  the  haunting  faces. 
There  is  forgetting  here — and  joy — and  peace. 

Naked  and  unafraid,  O  Mother  Nile! 

1  come  to  feel  thine  arms  about  my  body. 
Kiss  me!     Let  me  lie  dreaming  on  thy  breast, 
Watching  the  flight  of  birds  above  the  palms — 
Green  and  like  plumes  along  the  yellow  sand. 
There  is  a  line  of  crimson,  where  the  rocks 

Are  crossed  and  re-crossed  with  adventuring  vines 
That  grow  red  berries, — there  a  glimpse  of  blue 
Against  the  purple  of  the  mountain  peak. 
I  hear  the  dip  of  buckets  and  the  sound 
Of  wheels  that  lift  to  pour  among  the  fields 
Streams  of  life-giving  waters.     How  the  land 
Laughs  at  thy  coming,  O  dear  Mother  Nile! 
Olives  and  grapes;  wheat  and  the  clustered  corn; 
Great  Iris-blooms  and  figs  and  honey -dates; 
The  sloping  fields  of  grass  that  feed  the  flocks 

29 


Far  up  the  hills  whence  sound  of  shepherd-pipes 

Blends  with  the  murmur  of  a  water-fall; 

Tall  soldier-palms  that  stand  in  ordered  file, 

Plumed  and  expectant  of  their  coming  queen; 

These  are  the  offerings  laid  at  thy  feet 

In  welcome  from  the  land.     I  also  bring 

Oblations:  full-orbed  breasts,  round  limbs,  dark  eyes 

And  lips  red-ripe  for  love.     Lo,  I  am  ready 

For  passion  of  all  mothers,  from  the  maid 

Behind  the  mill  to  her  upon  a  throne. 

I  would  bring  a  woman's  gift,  dear  Mother  Nile: 

A  man-child  limbed  and  shouldered  like  a  god, 

And  with  prophetic  splendour  in  his  eyes; 

One  who  will  speak  the  word  against  all  thrones; 

Who  will  not  be  afraid  of  what  is  written 

On  altar-stones  or  sacrificial  jars; 

A  trumpeter  to  action  and  a  voice 

Stirring  the  people  from  their  ancient  sleep. 

To  bring  thee  such  a  gift,  I  would  endure 

The  insolence  of  men  who  make  for  women 

Seraglios;  tempt  them  with  carnelian  floors 

And  ivory  couches;  blind  them  with  the  glare 

Of  graven  cups  of  gold  on  silken  cloths 

Spread  over  cedar  tables.     With  what  lies 

Have  men  deceived  us.     Yet  would  I  bow  down, 

O  Mother  Nile,  before  some  lord  to  bear 

My  man-child  who  shall  be  the  thunderer 

Against  all  wrong.  .  .  . 


What  is  that  cry?— O  Reeds! 
OWind!    O  Nile!     It  is  a  baby's  cry! 
He  weeps  among  the  rushes.     Mother  Nile, 
Give  me  this  babe  and  I  will  teach  him  words 
Swifter  than  arrows,  sharper  than  a  spear. 
The  lore  of  all  the  ages  on  his  lips 
Shall  be  most  musical.     He  will  convince 
Men  by  the  passion  of  his  voice,  the  light 
Within  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Where  art  thou,  little  babe? 
He  sleeps,  dreaming  his  careless  mother  comes. 
How  I  will  mother  him  and  shape  his  hands 
To  heal  the  sick;  to  lift  the  heavy  load 
From  weary  shoulders;  open  wide  the  gates 
Of  guarded  cities.     There  shall  be  no  more 
Woe  and  wide  lamentation  in  the  world. 
His  feet  shall  be  announcement  of  the  spring, 
And  with  his  laughter  many  fountains  vie. 
Because  of  him  all  temples  and  all  thrones 
Must  tremble  till  their  towers  tumble  down; 
And  where  they  fall  children  shall  come  to  play, 
Making  their  flower-garlands  where  the  blood 
Of  sacrifice  was  vainly  poured  or  kings 
Took  tribute.  .  .  . 

Babe,  O  little  babe!   my  babe! 
Where  art  thou  hiding?     Reeds,  O  faithful  reeds, 
Tell  me  your  secret!     Hath  he  eyes  of  Egypt? 
Or  do  they  catch  the  colour  of  the  sky? 

31 


I  know  his  mouth  is  one  pomegranate  bud; 
His  hands  are  half -closed  lotus-cups  at  dawn; 
His  knees  are  bent  for  kisses  and  his  feet 
Are  like  the  leaves  of  lilies.  .  .  . 

Babe!     my  babe! 

Where  art  thou  hiding?    Make  a  little  sound, 
O  son  of  mine,  a  whisper  as  of  wings 
About  thy  head  where  Hathor  holds  her  hand, 
Talking  to  Isis  who  is  also  near. 
The  deities  of  death  and  life  are  met 
And  there  is  noise  of  an  eternal  Word! 
It  is  a  call  of  music  out  of  mist, 
When  evening  wakens  silence  with  the  stir 
Of  water  that  is  muted  by  the  trees. 
It  is  the  noise  of  morning  on  the  mountains 
And  thunder  of  far  cities  in  the  noon. 
It  is  the  wail  of  women  after  war, 
Weeping  for  those  who  will  not  come  again. 
It  is  the  song  of  reapers  in  the  corn; 
The  croon  of  maidens  bringing  home  the  jars 
With  water  from  the  well;  laughter  of  men 
Over  their  cups  of  wine  beside  the  door 
At  tales  of  bearded  herdsmen  from  the  north 
Or  quips  of  camel-drivers  from  the  south. 
It  is  the  reedy  music  of  a  shout 
Of  gladness  greeting  children  after  school. 
It  is  the  clamour  of  loud  temple-shawms 
And  beating  of  the  bells;  wisdom  of  words 
Spoken  by  prophets  coming  out  of  roads 
From  lonely  places  where  the  gods  are  heard 

32 


By  those  whom  vision  makes  unsatisfied 
With  shadows.     It  is  all  earth's  many  sounds 
Blended  within  one  Word: — eternal  Word! 
O  wonder  of  that  Word  my  babe  shall  speak, 
Be  thou  the  cry  that  tells  me  where  he  hides 
Among  the  reeds!     Yea,  as  I  hunt  for  him, 
So  will  all  ages  come  with  praying  hands 
And  lips  that  supplicate;  for  he  will  teach 
Between  the  pillars  of  the  past  and  present, 
Royal  and  crowned  with  truth:  yea  all  the  world 
Will  laugh  because  of  him.  .  .  . 

Again  that  cry! 
Hush,  O  my  baby!     I  am  coming.  .  .  .     Ah — ! 


33 


MOSES 


MOSES 

WHEN  God  beheld  how  Moses  turned  to  see, 
A  voice  called  from  the  bush.     So  runs  the  tale. 
A  truth  is  here — a  truth  that  will  prevail 
Now  as  of  old:    Who  would  a  prophet  be, 
Must  find  light  in  the  little  wayside  tree; 
Joy  in  the  desert;  he  must  never  fail 
Earth  with  her  store  of  stinging  hail, 
Dew  on  the  grass,  night  and  her  galaxy. 

Lift  up  your  eyes  unto  the  hills  of  morn ! 
Truth  is  not  truth  that  does  not  glorify 
The  desolate  and  barren  bush  of  thorn; 
Fills  not  with  stars  the  tempest-clouded  sky; 
Brings  not  the  murmur  of  a  choric  strain 
Of  triumph  from  the  threnody  of  pain. 


36 


MOSES 

O  wild  red  bird  of  sunset  on  the  hills ! 

O  winged  and  awful  splendour  of  the  day ! 

Fold  thou  thy  feathers  of  pure  flame  and  see 

What  beauty  makes  this  mountain-shrub  divine. 

How  I  have  watched  thy  flight  above  the  sand, 

Making  it  molten  in  a  flood  of  gold 

Until  the  camel-trains  out  of  the  east 

Floated  like  barges  and  the  pyramids 

Were  hills  of  fire!    What  wonder  hast  thou  wrought 

Upon  the  pillars  of  old  palaces 

And  temple-doors  and  pavements  and  great  walls! 

The  vineyards  that  within  thy  glory  stand, 

Expectant  of  the  little  globes  of  grapes; 

The  foam  along  the  runnel,  when  the  wine 

Pours  from  the  press  into  the  fragrant  jar 

Waiting  to  join  its  fellows  where  the  cool, 

Dark  cellar  keeps  them;  grist  of  yellow  corn 

Ground  in  the  little  mills  before  the  doors, 

And  scarlet  lengths  of  linen  on  the  grass 

Where  women  weave,  sing  to  the  shuttle's  tune 

Or  chatter  while  they  thread  the  measured  warp: 

These  are  among  thy  many  miracles, 

O  wild  red  bird  of  sunset  on  the  hills ! 

But  never  hast  thou  worked  such  miracle 

Of  beauty  as  in  yonder  bush  of  thorn. 

0  little  bush,  how  common  and  how  grey 
Until  this  moment  of  the  setting  sun ! 

1  have  passed  thee  a  thousand,  thousand  times, 

37 


Leading  the  flocks  of  Jethro  home  to  fold 
Yet  never  knew  thee  beautiful  as  now. 
Yea,  thou  art  beautiful  and  all  divine — 
Jehovah  is  thy  spirit,  thou  His  flesh! 
Thy  thorns  are  like  the  flame-points  of  a  star, 
Each  branch  the  clustered  beams  of  Mazzaroth. 
The  place  whereon  I  stand  is  holy  ground — 
The  Lord  is  here  and  I  behold  His  face! 
Jehovah !    Thou  art  He  for  whom  I  sought 
Through  Egypt  and  her  gathering  of  gods 
In  gloomy  temples. — Speak,  Jehovah,  speak! 
Yea,  let  Thy  voice  come  quivering  to  me 
Along  these  branches  lit  with  sunset-flame. 
Thou  art  that  discontent  which  led  me  on 
Past  muttered  words  of  priests  and  bloody  shrines 
To  freedom  of  the  desert  and  this  hour. 
Thou  dost  not  dwell  in  pyramids;  Thy  voice 
Is  not  within  a  book;  Thou  dost  not  spend 
Thy  music  only  on  an  ancient  psalm. 

How  I  have  waited  on  Thee,  O  my  God ! 

I  could  not  rest  with  ivory  and  gold; 

A  palace  like  to  Pharaoh's  near  the  Nile; 

Slaves  and  the  moving  of  great  peacock-fans 

For  noontide  slumber:  runners  in  the  streets 

Who  cried  before  my  car:    Prince  Mesu  comes! 

Against  the  glitter  of  a  scarab  ring; 

The  scarlet  as  of  poppies  in  my  robe; 

The  sistrum  and  the  viol  at  the  feast; 

I  held  the  sleepless  nights  and  tardy  dawns 


That  witnessed  to  my  waiting  for  a  sign 

Of  freedom  from  the  yoke  and  goad  of  Egypt, 

Galling  my  people. 

•    Yea,  thou  art  the  sign, 
O  wild  red  bird  of  sunset  on  the  hills! 
My  sandals  are  unloosed.     Unshod  I  kneel. 
O  bush  that  burns  and  yet  is  not  consumed, 
Be  thou  my  symbol  of  the  universe! 
God  is  the  light  that  gives  to  common  things 
Divinity,  sharing  its  radiance 
With  all  creation.     God  is  unconfined. 
The  shrub,  the  mountain  and  the  moving  star 
Possess  Him.     He  is  in  the  breath  of  buds 
Bursting  to  bloom ;  the  fruit  on  laden  boughs 
Of  autumn  when  the  wind  comes  down  the  fields 
To  dance  among  the  furrows  and  to  spill 
Odours  of  russet  apples  on  the  air. 
God  is  the  thrill  of  youth's  first  kiss  of  love; 
The  ecstasy  of  mothers  with  their  babes, 
The  feel  of  them  when  lips  are  on  the  breast 
And  there  is  thrusting  of  wee  hands  and  feet. 
God  is  the  laughter  of  all  smitten  harps. 
He  is  the  madness  of  loud  battle-gongs. 
He  is  the  call  of  trumpets,  roar  of  drums, 
Crash  of  the  lines  of  level  spears  that  meet, 
Hiss  of  the  arrows  that  come  down  like  rain. 
God  is  the  joy  of  craftsmen  in  their  craft: 
The  sculptor's  tender  touching  of  the  stone 
That  takes  the  form  and  substance  of  his  dream; 
Persistence  of  the  chisel  and  the  plane, 

39 


Fidelity  of  broadaxe  to  the  line; 

The  music  of  the  trowel  and  the  twang 

Of  cords  plucked  for  the  marking  of  a  beam. 

God  is  the  wisdom  and  the  calm  of  eyes 

Rapt  with  the  mystery  of  occult  words 

Graved  in  the  rock  or  written  on  the  roll 

By  prophets  who  have  dared  the  gates  of  death 

To  find  what  angels  whisper  from  the  stars 

Of  man  and  his  high  destiny  beyond 

The  golden  glimmer  of  their  farthest  zone. 

I  will  go  back  to  Egypt.    I  will  stand 

Before  the  priests  of  Amon  and  proclaim 

One  whom  they  do  not  know,  who  bow  to  bulls 

And  crocodiles.     I  will  declare  that  God 

Dwells  not  in  gloomy  temples  made  with  hands, 

That  God  is  templed  by  eternity. 

I  will  go  to  my  kinsmen,  call  them  forth, 

Bid  them  be  brave  against  their  bonds  and  dare 

The  fear  that  fetters  them,  teach  them  to  laugh 

At  shadowing  of  thrones,  make  them  as  gods 

For  freedom  and  for  truth.     The  quest  of  truth 

Shall  go  from  star  to  star.     Earth  shall  be  led 

Up  paths  of  light  in  the  processional 

Of  misted  wings  of  flame  and  burning  brows 

And  robes  of  beryl.     From  the  topmost  dome 

Of  heaven  to  shed's  utter  dark  abyss 

There  shall  be  loud  hosanna  from  the  suns 

To  Man  the  Victor  who  will  scale  the  sky, 

Daring  the  infinite  of  space  for  God! 

40 


NAAMAN 


NAAMAN 

DOMES  of  Damascus,  daring  minarets, 

Above  what  olden  memories  you  rise! 

There  is  a  brooding  Presence  in  your  skies — 

A  winged  god  or  an  angel — who  forgets 

Not  anything  of  yesterday  but  lets 

Time  pierce  him  with  a  scythe;  through  great  wide  eyes 

Of  sorrow  he  beholds  the  past  that  vies 

With  this  brief  moment,  while  the  Pharpar  frets 

Lost  stones  of  beauty. 

O  Damascus!    Domes 
And  minarets  are  not  your  ancient  pride: 
Yours  the  achievement  of  one  mighty  man 
Who  found  his  soul  and  saved  it.     Not  the  homes 
Of  kings  could  tempt  him  from  the  path  he  tried — 
Steepest  of  paths  since  quest  of  truth  began. 


NAAMAN 

I  will  not  in  the  hateful  House  of  Rimmon 

Bow  any  more  the  head  or  bend  the  knee. 

Here  are  but  idols.     Tombs  are  these  tapered  shrines — 

Tombs  of  dead  lies  that  long  deceived  the  people. 

I  will  go  forth  to  God  beneath  the  sky, 

Meet  Him  upon  the  mountains  where  the  dawn 

Wears  saffron  for  an  ephod — is  the  priest 

Whose  turban  still  the  morning  star  adorns. 

Have  done  with  drone  of  penitential  psalms, 
With  altars  wet  and  slippery  from  blood ! 
Have  done  with  fearful  and  uplifted  eyes, 
With  hands  of  supplication  clasped  in  prayer! 
Snuff  out  these  wicks  that  intercede  for  souls 
Released  by  death  and  singing  in  the  sun! 
Does  God  care  for  the  blood  of  bulls  and  goats, 
Who  feeds  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills? 
Come!  get  the  benediction  of  the  day 
Whose  hands  are  dropping  honey  with  the  dew, 
And  let  the  loud  hosanna  of  the  wind 
Make  me  forget  the  hateful  House  of  Rimmon. 
I  have  been  too  long  beggared  by  half  truths. 
Cramped  in  brocaded  garb  of  compromise, 
I,  Naaman,  Commander  of  the  host, 
Benhadad's  friend,  Damascus'  greatest  son, 
Am  but  a  beggar! — Nay,  hear  all  my  word: 
Count  not  my  ropes  of  pearl,  my  jacinth  jars, 
My  topaz,  diamonds  and  chrysoprase; 

43 


My  many-pillared  palace  on  the  hill, 
The  women  of  the  harem  and  the  slaves; 
My  drove  of  dromedaries  from  the  south 
And  white  Arabian  stallions  in  their  stalls, — 
Count  not  these  riches,  for  I  thirst  and  starve 
Within  this  plenitude  of  much  possession. 

Since  I  talked  with  Elisha,  cleansed  and  free, 

How  I  have  hated  Rimmon  and  his  house! 

The  Prophet  had  no  gold.     He  would  not  take 

Gifts  from  my  hand.     He  stood  beneath  the  noon 

Bareheaded  and  unbowed — a  man  among 

The  sons  of  men-— the  kind  that  I  would  be — 

tin  vexed  by  fear  of  any  god.     His  eyes 

Looked  bravely  on  the  world.     Heard  you  his  voice, 

Forthwith  a  distant  stream  fell  from  the  crags; 

A  wind  went  murmuring  among  the  vines; 

An  intermittent  moaning  of  the  sea 

Blent  with  the  sound  of  trumpets  blown  for  battle. 

I  knew  him  for  a  comrade  and  a  brother; 

My  first  and  dreamed-of  own  familiar  friend; 

A  breaster  of  the  hills,  lord  of  the  staff 

And  of  the  long-leagued  sandals  and  a  good, 

A  hearty  wayfarer  fond  of  all  roads — 

A  gatherer  of  grapes  in  many  vineyards. 

He  had  no  fear  of  talking  with  his  god 

Who  is  now  my  god !  — aye,  and  face  to  face 

With  Him  he  held  high  and  direct  communion. 

I  heard  from  him  no  psalm  of  penitence, 

No  sobbing  to  the  beating  of  the  breast; 


God  was  to  him  the  common  and  the  tried, 
The  always-here,  the  never-absent  One. 
Partaker  of  the  little  things  of  life: 
God  tJie  great  Casual  and  Commonplacel 

The  challenge  of  those  far  prophetic  eyes 

Now  follows  me  and  I  can  bear  no  more 

Their  mild  rebuke — I  hate  the  House  of  Rimmon! 

Benhadad's  hand  will  vainly  seek  the  hand 

Of  Naaman.     The  host  will  call  and  call 

Among  the  tents  of  Pharpar  for  their  lord. 

There  will  be  sound  of  voices  in  the  streets, 

Crying:     Where  is  our  Captain  Naaman? 

The  people  of  the  market  will  forget 

The  feel  of  scarlet  leather  to  the  touch 

Of  fingers  that  are  trained  to  tell  the  eye 

The  value  of  a  saddle.     By  the  door 

Where  potters  whirl  the  wheel  and  mould  the  clay, 

Leading  the  bowl  and  oval  pitcher  up, 

There  will  be  talk  of  Naaman  and  how 

He  left  Damascus.     Clink  of  com  and  stir 

Of  buyers  in  the  great  bazaar  will  cease 

While  men  stand  wondering  at  word  of  him 

Who  could  forsake  their  bales  of  merchandise: 

Silk  and  fair  linen  and  fine  tapestries, 

Coffers  of  amber  holding  frankincense, 

Urns  of  red  agate  and  tall  festal  cups 

Lipped  by  a  lace  of  pearls  upon  the  gold. 

They  will  not  know.     They  will  not  understand. 

Slaves  of  the  god  that  glitters,  they  will  go 

45 


Back  to  the  tables  where  the  baubles  are. 
The  wheels  will  turn,  the  huckster  cry  his  wares, 
The  fool  go  back  to  folly  and  the  knave 
Complete  his  crime.     Ere  morning  part  in  twain 
The  starred  and  purple  curtain  of  the  night 
To  let  the  laughing  day  leap  from  the  sun, 
I  shall  be  gone.     Never  more  swift  the  feet 
Of  lover  to  the  tryst  than  mine  shall  be 
Against  the  nearing  length  of  Lebanon. 
Across  the  crescent  splendour  of  the  stream 
Called  Jordan,  past  the  hedges  and  the  walls 
Of  little  gardens,  I  will  go  and  find 
My  prophet  of  the  wistful  open  eyes; 
My  dreamer  of  the  dear  and  tender  mouth; 
My  laughing  comrade  of  un ventured  hills : 
That  I  may  learn  from  him  the  road  that  leads 
Out  of  this  night  of  Rimmon  into  day 
Of  fearless,  glad  companioning  with  God. 


46 


THE  PROPHET  OF  CHEBAR 


THE  PROPHET  OF  CHEBAR 

ABOVE  the  stream  of  scarlet  Babylon 
All  harps  were  hung  while  captive  Judah  wept — 
Remembering  lost  Zion.     Prophets  slept; 
The  Oracle  was  mute;  then  there  came  one 
Who  found  in  alien  streams,  when  day  is  done 
Or  dawning  in  the  desert,  notes  that  swept 
His  heart  with  gladness:  he  was  true  and  kept 
Faith  with  his  joy,  like  flowers  with  the  sun. 

Read  and  mark  well,  O  spirit!  for  thou  too 
Art  of  the  prophets,  if  thou  canst  find  peace, 
Singing  a  new  song  when  the  harps  are  still. 
Go,  win  from  every  stream  wild  notes  that  woo 
Thy  fancy;  laugh,  though  other  laughter  cease; 
With  thy  glad  music  all  waste  places  fill. 


48 


THE   PROPHET  OF   CHEBAR 

Come  barken,  O  my  people,  to  the  song 
Jehovah  taught  me  to  the  cadences 
Of  Chebar  where  a  little  lodge  still  stands 
Above  the  rushes  and  the  cushat  dove 
Calls  in  the  lotus-laden  night  of  dreams: 
A  lodge  of  wattles,  roofed  with  russet  reeds 
That  shelter  from  the  thrusting  scimiters 
Of  fierce,  relentless  Babylonian  noons. 
Here  have  I  pondered  through  the  silences 
Life's  riddle — caught  the  thin  elusive  threads 
In  labyrinthine  windings  of  the  words 
God  writes  on  stones,  twigs,  leaves,  flowers  and  grass; 
Here  have  I  read  the  scriptures  of  the  night, 
Lettered  with  stars  upon  a  purple  scroll: 
Here  have  I  found  creation  held  in  awe 
Of  some  great  secret  which  it  dare  not  tell, 
And  yet  is  ever  on  the  brink  of  telling. 
I  yield  to  form  and  colour  of  the  sky, 
The  majesty  of  mountains  on  their  thrones — 
The  ridges  through  the  valleys.     I  rejoice 
Before  the  iridescence  of  a  pool, 
And  pray  within  the  solitude  of  trees. 
The  flowers  are  my  most  familiar  friends. 
The  thistle  and  the  bramble  and  the  thorn 
Offer  their  odours  freely  when  I  pass. 
I  understand  the  sounds  of  night  and  day: 
Whisper  of  roads;  call  of  far  caravans; 
Twitter  of  mother-moments  on  the  bough; 

49 


Noise  of  great  cities  hidden  by  the  hills. 
I  am  made  free  from  fettering  of  tears 
That  instant  when  a  bird  is  on  the  wing, 
Or  there  is  joyous  piping  from  a  tree. 
Earth,  sea  and  sky,  in  turn  for  love  I  give, 
Grant  me  glad  moments  of  their  fellowship; 
Tell  what  is  happening  above  the  stars; 
Betray  the  planned  surprises  of  the  trees 
Long  ere  the  leafing  time  and  let  me  find 
How,  underneath  the  moon,  whatever  draws 
Soul  from  the  soil — the  flower  and  the  fern — 
Dances  and  makes  low  music  with  the  wind. 
So,  harken  to  your  brother  of  the  lodge 
Down  by  the  river,  playing  on  a  harp 
And  singing  of  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
The  moon,  the  stars,  the  mountains  and  the  sea; 
Yea,  harken,  O  my  people,  to  the  song 
God  taught  me  to  the  music  of  the  stream ! 

•         >>•••• 
The  song  of  the  river! 
The  song  of  the  river  that  floweth 
By  Babylon  out  of  the  desert  and  into  the  desert: 
O  man  that  mourneth  under  the  roof  of  thy  lodge 
Hard  by  the  river  called  Chebar, 
Why  wilt  thou  weep  with  desolate  tears 
And  crying  of  one  who  can  not  be  comforted? 
Thou  who  hast  loved  me  from  babyhood  here  on  my  banks, 
Played  in  the  sun  and  laughed  when  he  smithied 
My  waters  to  brass  when  the  wind  floated  a  leaf 
Of  the  palm  on  my  flood;  thou  who  hast  watched 

50 


Through  the  morning  thy  mother  bent  over  the  blue, 

The  scarlet  and  yellow  woof  of  her  weaving, 

Chanting  the  bow-twanging  words  of  the  Psalmist: 

Why  wilt  thou  weep  with  desolate  tears 

And  crying  of  one  who  can  not  be  comforted? 

Thou  who  hast  wrought  with  thy  father 

Yokes  for  the  cattle  or  fashioned  sharp  sickles, 

Shaped  a  share  for  a  plough  and  hewed  out  the  beam; 

Thou  who  hast  walked  down  the  furrows  of  spring, 

Holding  the  melon-shaped  jar  of  the  seed 

Hard  to  thy  hip,  the  seed  of  the  barley  and  corn; 

Thou  who  hast  taken  a  lamb  from  the  lion  and  bear, 

Braving  the  terror  of  night  for  the  fold, 

Leading  the  sheep  down  the  slope  of  the  pastures 

Till  the  time  for  the  homing  of  them  was  at  hand 

In  the  last  red  glare  of  the  sun,  and  the  moon 

Came  out  of  the  olives  and  stood  upon  Carmel 

Far  away  in  the  land  of  thy  fathers: 

Why  wilt  thou  weep  with  desolate  tears 

And  crying  of  one  who  can  not  be  comforted? 

Thou  who  hast  dreamed  and  communed  with  thyself, 

Lone  in  the  starlight  and  rapt  with  the  music 

Made  as  I  poured  over  the  pebbles  and  into  the  rushes, 

Thinking  the  thoughts  of  great  harpers  and  prophets 

Who  have  heard  God  speak  in  the  thunder  of  judgment 

Or  plead  in  a  tone  more  tender  than  that  of  a  uoman; 

Thou  who  hast  mused  on  the  words  of  the  mighty — 

Psalms  that  are  keyed  to  the  quivering  soul 

And  writ  with  the  blood  of  a  heart  that  was  broken — 

Psalms  that  are  blent  with  the  magic  of  moon-mist 

51 


And  sun-glow  and  sky-blue  and  little  cloud-fringes, 
Tinctured  with  scarlet  on  mouth  of  a  maiden 
Pale  from  the  pain  of  the  joy  of  her  first  kiss, 
Where  the  dusk  green  of  the  arbours  of  ivy 
Brings  out  the  gold  on  the  gourds  in  the  garden — 
Why  wilt  thou  weep  with  desolate  tears 
And  crying  of  one  who  can  not  be  comforted? 
Know  that  the  day  is  at  hand  when  the  terror 
Shall  fall  from  the  face  of  the  mourner; 
When  crying  shall  cease  and  the  loud  lamentation; 
When  nation  shall  not  make  war  against  nation : 
When  love,  like  the  light  of  the  sun  in  his  strength, 
Shall  shine  on  the  earth  and  fill  the  waste  places — 
Shall  bring  in  the  joy  of  the  Lord  and  His  Sabbath ! 


5OCRATE- 


SOCRATES 

WHAT  blasphemy  to  call  earth  Lucifer, 
The  fallen  Star! — Brightest  and  best  among 
Those  myriad  celestial  spheres  wide-flung 
In  space,  earth  is  acclaimed;  Algol  to  her 
Bows  down;  the  strains  of  Vega's  harping  stir 
Dawn  from  the  arms  of  Night  with  anthems  sung 
To  praise  this  planet,  in  that  mystic  tongue 
Spoken  by  gods,  graved  on  the  gates  of  Ur. 

Fairer  than  beauty  of  the  Pleiades, 
Earth  passes  on  her  way  triumphant — known 
Among  the  constellations  as  the  throne 
Of  greatness  proved  by  every  test  of  pain; 
Therefore  the  words  of  Vega's  far  refrain: 
All  hail,  0  Star  that  gave  us  Socrates! 


SOCRATES 

Appolodorus — !     Son,  thy  tears  and  cries 

Confine  my  thoughts.     What  I  would  say  is  this — 

Crito,  canst  thou  not  soothe  Appolodorus? 

There,  there,  dear  lad!     I  did  not  mean  rebuke; 

Thy  love  falls  on  my  heart,  as  falls  that  ray 

Of  sunset  out  of  blue  Athenian  skies 

Through  yonder  window.     How  the  wild  motes  dance, 

And  to  what  music,  down  the  path  of  Phoebus ! 

Sweet  are  the  sounds  we  can  not  hear,  and  fair 

The  forms  we  can  not  see;  for  ear  and  eye 

Are  lately  fashioned  instruments  of  Mind 

Which  has  not  mastered  them  and  made  them  serve 

The  higher  senses:   we  are  only  come 

Out  of  the  wilderness.     Let  my  sunbeam 

That  spans  the  gulf  twixt  all  our  yesterdays 

And  immortality's  to-morrow  be 

To  Socrates  a  final  theme  for  thought. 

Plato,  what  thinkest  thou? — The  All  is  Light: 
Not  Fire,  as  Heraclitus  taught;  not  Air, 
Not  Moisture.     Light  is  the  Forth-going  One, 
The  Self-communicator  and  the  Source 
Of  everything  that  is.     How  all  the  priests 
Who  rail  against  the  evil  times  forget 
That  man's  divinest  mood  appears  when  men 
Are  most  forgetful  and  are  sunk  in  sloth, 
Or  dally  with  their  dreams! — A  message  here 
For  all  these  troubled  times:   this  wide  unrest 
And  bickering  of  civic  polities, 

55 


With  marching  of  great  armies  up  and  down 
The  desolated  highways  of  the  world. 
O  Athens  of  the  gods,  hail  and  farewell ! 
The  centuries  will  rise  and  call  thee  Queen; 
Men  of  Olympian  brows  proclaim  thee  first 
To  find  the  universal  harmony: 
They  will  forget  this  bowl  of  hemlock-brew, 
Bitter  as  tears  of  poor  Appolodorus, 
Remembering  thy  beauty. 

How  the  dust 

Goes  dancing  down  the  slanted  plane  of  light, 
Like  dryads  hunting  for  Persephone 
Light  is  the  All:    again  the  figure,  friends. 
Was  Phidias  defeated  by  the  stone? 
We  would  not  know  the  man,  had  marble  failed 
To  quicken  his  great  craft  of  sculpturing. 
Did  Homer  sing  the  song  of  Ilion : 
Achilles'  courage  and  the  bullock-strength 
Of  Ajax  or  the  cunning  Ithacan, 
In  muted  melody  for  being  blind? 
The  marble  was  the  friend  of  Phidias, 
Resisting  him  that  out  of  struggle  birth 
Of  an  eternal  beauty  bless  the  world; 
Immortal  music  hath  crowned  Ilion; 
Achilles'  glory  is  the  wounded  heel; 
Ajax  is  now  the  brute  become  divine; 
Ulysses  lives  forever  through  the  loss 
And  doom  that  drove  him  up  and  down  the  sea: 
Light  is  the  All,  Evil  is  but  the  dark 
Through  which  the  rays  perpetual  appear. 

56 


I,  Socrates,  who  am  about  to  die — 

About  to  die?  what  folly  is  in  words! 

There  is  no  death,  j?ave  that  which  seems  to  be — 

The  opposite  of  life,  life  that  is  all, 

Since  life  and  light  are  one:   life  is  made  known 

By  death,  as  sound  leaps  from  the  tightened  string; 

Death  is  to  life  as  marble  to  the  sculptor, 

Waits  for  the  touch  that  lets  a  soul  go  free; 

Death  is  that  moment  ere  the  swimmer  feels 

The  swift  pain  of  the  plunge  into  the  pool, 

Followed  by  laughter  where  the  bubbles  flow 

From  the  divided  water  and  the  sun 

Turns  them  to  crystal:   life  and  light  are  one. 

What  do  I  mean? — Do  words  conceal  the  soul 
Of  Socrates?     Oh,  ye  are  dumb  with  tears! 
Harken,  and  I  will  tell  what  I  declared 
Before  the  Judges. — Take  my  speech,  thou  scribe, 
Plato  the  lord  and  minister  of  words, 
That  for  all  time  it  may  be  known  of  men 
How  Socrates  was  brought  to  birth  of  Light. 
It  happened  on  this  wise:     'Twixt  youth  and  age, 
I  heard  the  calling  of  an  idle  morn 
And  forthwith  took  the  old  Piraean  road, 
For  joy  of  gossiping  among  the  boats 
Along  the  shore.     Priapus  danced  with  Pan. 
Dear  Aphrodite  shook  the  clustered  foam 
From  her  dark  hair  and  silvered  all  the  sand 
With  bubbles.     Pallas  came  upon  a  cloud 
With  Lord  Apollo  playing.     Naiads  cried 

57 


For  Hylas  who  returned  from  wandering, 
And  whispered  tales  of  cities  built  of  gold. 
A  Triton  blew,  melodious  and  long, 
Poseidon's  ancient  challenge  to  the  shore. 
I  heard  the  ever- whispering  of  palms; 
A  mother  somewhere,  soothing  her  hurt  child; 
An  oath  of  anger  from  the  bearded  mouth 
Of  one  half  drunken  sailor  out  of  Tyre, 
In  quarrel  with  a  comrade  near  the  prow 
Of  their  beached  trireme. — Oh,  the  sights  and  sounds, 
The  quickening  of  days  beside  the  sea! 
Then  in  a  moment  I  stood  forth  within 
A  wide  ellipse  of  broad  leaf-margined  flame, 
In  colour  like  a  bank  of  violets. 
All  that  was,  is  or  shall  be  drew  in  one 
Supreme  cognition.     I  was  mixed  with  all. 
I  understood  the  stars;  I  raced  with  them 
Across  the  sky  beyond  the  fiery  foam 
Of  that  eternal  sea  which  casts  up  worlds 
With  the  forever-motion  of  its  waves. 
Out  of  old  discords  grew  the  harmonies 
Of  atom,  stone  and  clod  and  earth  and  star. 
I  saw  the  ancient  strife  of  hate  with  love 
Cease  at  the  laughter  of  the  larger  gods 
Grown  from  the  human,  and  at  length  aware 
Of  earth's  immortal  values  won  through  tears. 
I  knew  that  sin  was  but  the  purple  hem 
Upon  the  seamless  robe  of  holiness; 
That  slave  and  king  were  merely  earthly  masks 
Concealing  brothers;  that  a  harlot's  eyes 

58 


Were  windows  of  a  soul  in  prison,  caught 

Within  the  snare  of  sense,  held  for  a  while 

In  bonds  of  shame  till  death  breaks  down  the  door 

And  sets  the  captive  free;  that  in  their  time 

All  creatures  gain  the  path  and  win  to  light, 

Find  what  was  lost,  restore  what  was  destroyed. 

How  good,  how  kind  were  all  things!    Tragedy 

Walked  with  the  laughing  naked  Pastorals. 

Hector  and  Priam  shouted :    All  is  well! 

To  Agamemnon.     Clytemnestra  leaned 

In  deathless  rapture  on  her  lord  and  king. 

Antaeus  rose  and  called  to  Heracles, 

And  they  embraced,  talking  of  their  old  strife; 

How  in  the  grapple  of  their  mighty  arms, 

The  opposition  of  their  straining  breasts, 

Courage,  nobility  and  strength  were  found. 

Pluto  came  forth  forever  out  of  hell, 

After  Persephone  who  flung  white  flowers 

Upon  his  path,  and  from  the  underworld 

A  song  of  gladness  poured.     There  was  no  need 

That  Sysiphus  should  strive  against  the  stone; 

That  Tantalus  should  stand  above  the  stream, 

Wailing  for  water,  or  Eurydice 

Fade  from  her  lover  who  had  dared  to  look 

Back  on  the  road  that  led  from  death  to  life. 

Sunlight  was  on  the  sea  where  Jason  saw 

Medea  slay  her  babies,  and  a  wave 

Of  jade  and  pearl  upbore  them  back  to  him — 

Faithful  at  last  and  by  his  queen  forgiven. 


Mine  was  a  moment's  vision,  when  all  things 
Were  manifested ;  then  the  flame  went  out, 
And  once  more  I  was  made  aware  of  flesh : 
A  thick-lipped,  bulbous-eyed  old  satyr-face; 
A  long-armed,  lumbering  lump  called  Socrates; 
A  taster  of  good  wine  through  thirsty  nights 
Of  banqueting — nay,  Plato!   though  thou  dost 
Nod  that  great  brow  in  protest  of  my  words, 
I  am  akin  to  Pan — not  to  Apoho. 
Yet  I  confess  a  dignity  that  draws 
My  daemon  to  my  side,  the  brother-god 
Who  calls  me  friend ;  he  claimed  me  on  the  shore 
When  there  was  light,  and  ever  since  hath  kept 
Companionship  with  Socrates :  a  Voice 
Sounds  in  my  soul  that  walks  at  ease  with  God — 
God  who  is  uncreated  Light  and  Life — 
A  Voice  that  is  the  spirit  of  all  sound — 
The  Logos!    .     .     .     Plato,  dost  thou  know  The  Word? 
Of  it  I  shall  speak  later  ere  I  die. 
This  Voice  is  still.     It  doth  not  cry  alou 
And  clamour  like  the  gusty  Gorgias 
Or  loud  Thrasymachus.     It  is  the  breath 
Of  twilight  on  the  fields,  the  murmuring 
Of  ripened  corn,  the  noise  of  water  heard 
Remote  and  far,  the  footfall  of  a  friend, 
The  yea  of  maidens  wooed  and  won  within 
The  star-lit  rapture  of  a  summer  night. 
Not  always  have  I  heard  this  inward  voice: 
Waste  wildernesses,  paths  of  wandering, 
Thorns  and  the  thickets  and  the  rocky  hills; 

60 


Wild  beasts  about  me,  gnashing  with  their  teeth; 
The  slipping  feet!     the  clutching  hands!     the  fall! 
The  shame  of  failure — oh,  I  know  them  well! 
The  Voice  comes  not  for  calling,  is  not  heard 
In  answer  unto  prayer,  and  is  not  moved 
By  smoke  of  altars. — Sudden  Word  of  God! 
He  who  hath  never  heard  thy  silver  sound, 
Must  come  again  through  mortal  motherhood 
Until  the  patient  soul  by  many  births 
Hath  trained  the  ear  to  listen  and  the  heart 
To  understand. — Gnothi  seauton,  friends! 
So  shall  ye  hold  communion  with  the  soul — 
Thy  mansioned  soul  wherein  the  Voice  is  heard 
And  Logos  is  made  manifest:  this  teach, 
My  Plato.     Age  shall  follow  age,  and  men 
Waste  on  red  battle  fields  their  periods 
Of  growth,  or  squander  in  the  market  place 
The  golden  sequences  of  earthly  hours; 
Yea,  men  shall  die  the  ancient  ugly  death 
And  seek  re-birth,  and  being  born,  forget 
The  holy  purposes  of  mother-pangs, 
Until  at  length  shall  rise  a  godlike  race 
Obedient  to  One  who  will  be  called 
The  Word  Incarnate!    Then  shall  come  the  Light, 
And  life  shall  be  held  sacred — yea,  all  things 
That  struggle  upward  shall  be  helped  by  man 
To  share  the  going  on  from  star  to  star 
In  hosts  of  joyous  souls  adventuring! 

The  Logos,  Xenophon? — the  thought  of  God. 
What,  Crito? — yea,  it  is  a  mystery 

61 


Hid  in  the  ages  ere  the  world  began, 

And  dimly  understood  by  those  who  delve 

Deep  into  Nature  and  discover  truth 

Writ  on  the  rocks  and  woven  with  the  stars. 

God  always  thought,  and,  thinking,  sent  forth  waves 

Of  everlasting  light:   He  is  that  Sun 

Whose  all-including  rays  challenge  the  dark 

And  dare  the  void:   each  ray  hath  form  and  name, 

Intelligence  and  power;  knows  love,  gives  love, 

Finds  love  in  fellowship  with  those  who  shine 

Supernal  from  the  depths  of  Him  who  thinks: 

The  Logos  is  a  word  that  names  these  gods 

Outgoing  from  one  God,  and  in  return 

For  life  descend  to  earth  and  share  its  pain ! 

By  them  the  world  was  made  and  man  was  formed: 

Each  atom  means  the  exile  of  a  soul 

Imprisoned  by  its  act  through  sacrifice 

Of  self,  that  it  may  lead  up  into  light 

Another  self — all  glorious  and  wrought 

Of  anguish  and  of  pain  to  be  a  god: 

Man  is  the  great  adventure,  is  the  goal 

Won  by  indwelling  Thought  that  is  divine! 

My  moment  by  the  sea,  wherein  I  found 

The  fellowship  of  things — the  harmonies 

Of  atom,  earth  and  star — was  the  return 

Triumphant  of  a  Logos  to  the  Light! 

Art  thou  in  shadow  still,  Appolodorus? 
Gnothi  seauton!    Know  thyself — thyself: 
One  Logos  lost  within  determined  dust, 

62 


Ages  before  the  sunrise  on  the  hills, 

That  He  might  make  thee  through  ascending  forms — 

Broken  by  death  and  mended  by  new  birth! 

Yea,  death  and  birth  are  sunset  and  sunrise, 

Dividing  day  and  night  until  the  year 

Fulfills  its  seasons — many  deaths  and  births, 

Appolodorus,  hast  thou  known;  thy  months 

Are  measured  by  the  orbits  of  the  stars, 

Thy  year  out-distances  the  path  of  suns ! 

Out  of  this  cup  I  drink  to  all  good  friends: 
Wayfarers  of  the  world  who  bravely  seek 
After  the  truth:     all  minstrelsy  of  song, 
And  healers  of  the  gentle  touch,  and  those 
Who  dare  untrodden  roads  for  no  reward 
Save  joy  of  finding  out  another  path 
For  clodded  feet  that  falter  on  old  ways 
Leading  nowhither,  and  the  gospellers 
Who  laugh  tears  out  of  tired  eyes  that  weep 
The  ancient  error  and  the  fault  that  clings. 
There!  empty  is  the  bowl  and  flung  aside 
To  shatter  like  a  shard  upon  the  floor; 
But  other  bowls  are  waiting  for  the  wine 
That  shall  be  poured  unwasted  to  their  brims, 
Red,  sparkling  in  libation  to  the  gods 
Who  now  receive  the  soul  of  Socrates! 

Light!   .    .    .    Plato,  the  Voice!   .    .    .   Appolodorus — 

63 


VASHTI 


VASHTI 

ACROSS  the  tumult  of  great  Xerxes'  feast 
One  word  was  spoken,  just  a  woman's  word! 
It  shattered  sound.     Its  syllables  were  heard 
Like  loud  doom-trumpets  of  the  fated  East 
Drunken  with  wine  and  sodden  as  a  beast 
Fat  for  the  altar.     Eyes  from  drinking  blurred, 
Glared  over  goblets;  from  his  divan  stirred 
One  with  an  ephod:   Slay  her!  cried  that  priest. 

Vashti!     Stand  forth  to  work  your  woman's  way 
Upon  the  idle  f casters  of  the  world; 
Shatter  the  noise  of  revels  where  men  feed, 
Forgetful  of  the  God  whose  judgment  day 
Brightens  the  sky:  a  word  of  thunder  hurled 
Against  those  tents  of  shame  heralds  your  deed. 


66 


VASHTI 

Ye  seven  slaves  of  Xerxes,  back  to  him ! 
Go  tell  your  drunken  master,  Vashti  saith : 
Groom  of  my  father  EvU-Mcrodach, 
I  will  not  go  naked  and  posturing 
Unto  the  feast!  how  many  cups  of  wine 
Made  thee  so  insolent? 

Sisters,  see  how 

Vashti  flings  crown  and  ring  to  yonder  eunuchs, 
Claiming  equality  with  man!     Follow, 
And  bid  your  lords  go  loveless  through  the  world, 
Until  they  cease  to  reckon  so  much  gold 
Against  our  bodies!    Oh,  the  centuries 
Of  bartering  what  never  may  be  bought — 
Love  at  the  price  of  cattle!     Will  ye  not  stand, 
My  friends,  for  freedom?    One  by  one,  the  years 
Come  weeping  and  they  cry :    Follow,  follow 
Queen  Vashti! — Will  ye  waste  those  tears? — follow 
Vashti  to  death  or  exile!    Follow  me! 

Men  will  not  always  rave  of  woman's  mouth, 
As  though  it  were  a  scarlet  poppy  bud 
Blown  into  beauty  on  their  sudden  breath; 
They  will  not  ever  sing  about  her  eyes 
And  talk  of  pansies  open  to  the  dawn, 
Or  hymn  her  breasts  and  say  they  are  white  lilies; 
They  will  not  rope  her  neck  about  with  pearls, 
Bind  her  with  bracelets  till  the  hands  and  feet 
Are  fettered  like  an  Ethiopian  slave, 

67 


Fool  her  with  rings  on  perfumed  fingers: 
Together  man  and  woman  shall  go  up 
To  all  that  we  have  meant  by  serving  gods — 
Those  faces  in  a  dream  which  are  ourselves! 

Ye  whisper,  pale,  go  faltering  from  me? 
Will  no  one  stand  with  Vashti  in  this  cause? 
Then  by  the  singing  certainty  of  truth! 
Let  Vashti  be  the  first  to  dare  the  fate 
Of  woman  claiming  comradeship  with  man, 
And  sow  the  seed  of  far-off  harvesting. 

Ye  slaves  of  Xerxes,  take  Queen  Vashti's  word 
Back  to  your  master  and  his  host  of  liars; 
Yea,  tell  him  to  recall  the  time  that  he 
Met  Vashti  hi  a  grove  of  Babylon, 
And  there  were  doves  about  her  and  a  song 
Of  bulbuls  and  a  falling  of  far-water     .     .     . 

Oh,  why  did  Xerxes  plead,  who  holds  so  cheap 
His  lady  that  he  bids  her  walk  to-night 
Naked  among  his  guests?     Why  did  he  woo 
Young  Vashti's  virgin  mouth,  why  did  he  vow 
The  gilded  marble  domes  of  Babylon 
And  all  the  pleasure  palaces  of  Dura, 
Hers  for  a  hostage  of  reluctant  kisses? — 

Go ! 

My  Xerxes,  thou  hast  killed  the  priceless  thing! 
There  was  a  time  when  Vashti  bled  to  see 

68 


One  little  mark  of  pain  upon  thy  brow. 

What  wakeful  nights  she  watched,  lest  noise  disturb 

Thee — home  victorious  from  war  or  tired 

From  every  care  that  comes  upon  a  king! 

Thy  step,  thy  voice,  thy  touch  made  her  heart  leap, 

Like  little  conies  up  and  down  the  hills; 

Like  leaves  beneath  the  moonlight,  when  the  wind 

Kisses  the  vineyards  and  the  trailing  gourds 

Are  green  among  the  furrows;  like  the  waves 

That  rise  and  fall  in  passion  to  the  shore! 

O  Xerxes!   hadst  thou  harkened  unto  her, 

How  she  would  save  thee  from  the  lies  of  men! 

Xerxes!  together  we  could  win  the  world — 

The  world  that  thou  hast  lost  with  Vashti's  love. 


BALTHAZAR  MAGUS 


BALTHAZAR  MAGUS 

THERE  was  no  need  for  him  to  con  the  page 
Of  any  oracle,  knowing  the  night 
And  every  star.     Those  awful  spheres  of  light — 
Vast  orbs  whose  cycles  thought  alone  could  gauge 
Filled  him  with  wonderment,  led  past  his  age 
Balthazar.     What  was  that  celestial  sight? 
An  angel  pausing  in  majestic  flight? 
Lord  Christ  descending  to  His  heritage! 

Blessed  is  he,  who,  when  the  Master  comes, 
Meets  his  high  moment  of  the  sudden  star: 
While  others  lie  locked  in  a  dreamless  sleep, 
Or  there  is  banqueting,  or  the  loud  drums 
Of  dawn  throb  up  the  hired  hosts  to  war, 
And  men  are  dying  and  their  women  weep. 


BALTHAZAR   MAGUS 

Virgo,  thou  maid  of  heaven!     within  thy  hand 

An  ear  of  wheat!   yea,  Spica  burns  the  best, 

The  brightest  of  thy  stars.     The  moon  is  down. 

I  saw  one  horn  of  her  gore  at  a  cloud 

Low  on  the  desert.     How  the  harbour  lights 

Glimmer  and  fall !  they  are  like  yellow  petals 

Shaken  from  little  flowers  of  the  field 

Before  that  great  red  lotus  of  the  north — 

Pharos!   held  high  upon  its  marble  vase 

And  lifted  over  Alexandria, 

To  lead  the  sailors  in :   two  triremes  now 

Steal  past  the  quay  with  homeward-moving  oars. 

Tis  good  to  be  alone  among  the  stars 
Upon  this  temple  stair. — There  goes  Arcturus, 
Leading  his  flocks;  behind  him  he  has  flung 
The  Northern  Crown  with  Gemma's  golden  glow: 
He  has  no  care  for  crowns,  who  loves  the  sheep! 
Perchance  Arcturus  knows  that  Vega  plays 
Her  harp  for  him,  and  with  celestial  song 
Almost  persuades  her  shepherd  to  turn  back. 

Ha,  Draco!    ever  in  thy  swift  pursuit, 
And  ever  foiled  of  feeding  on  the  flocks 
Arcturus  leads,  what  holds  thee  from  thy  prey? 
Is  Vega's  love  preventing?     do  her  eyes 
Dare  that  deep  gulf  made  by  those  gaping  jaws, 
And  pierce  them  as  with  arrows  from  a  bow? 

73 


How  hate  and  love  are  written  with  the  stars 
That  tell  of  love  triumphant! 

Whose  the  hand 

That  turned  the  Dipper  down  and  emptied  it 
Of  all  its  gold  now  scattered  on  the  sky? 
In  vain  the  Little  Dipper  intervenes — 
The  flood  spills  past  its  proffered  brim  to  flow 
Into  the  waiting  coffers  of  the  night! 
Vega,  didst  thou  do  this? 

There  Libra  stands 

To  weigh  the  gold.     How  many  talents  worth, 
Dear  Lady  of  the  Scales,  shall  Vega  have 
For  marriage-portion,  if  she  wed  Arcturus? 
Let  her  now  pray  at  Virgo's  shining  feet 
A  blessing  on  her  nuptials !   let  the  sheaf 
That  Leo's  sickle  reaped  content  the  maid — 
Gold  is  for  kings — Arcturus  cares  for  sheep! 

Back  to  thy  desert,  scaly  Scorpio ! 
Out  of  the  path  of  Vega  and  her  love! 
Why  lurkest  thou  on  Love's  uplifting  path? 
Orion,  raise  thy  many-jewelled  sword 
And  smite  the  menace,  or  let  Hercules 
Venture  against  the  peril  Vega  knows. 

What  is  that  star  in  Coma,  glorious 
And  beautiful?     is  it  a  comet  lost 
Forever  on  the  fields  of  night?   a  world 


Out  of  its  orbit  or  a  soul  between 

The  knees  of  judgment,  face  to  face  with  Thoth? 

It  dims  the  other  stars!    Antares  pales, 

And  Sirius  becomes  a  smoking  torch 

Held  downward  in  the  token  of  one's  death; 

Perseus  fades  like  a  beacon  into  mist, 

What  time  a  vapour  comes  upon  the  sea 

And  ships  toss,  waiting  for  its  welcome  light; 

Andromeda  dissolves,  as  in  a  dream 

The  phantoms  of  dead  women  leave  the  arms 

Of  weeping  lovers  wakened  by  the  day; 

There  is  no  gleam  from  Algol;  no  red  glare 

Burns  in  Aldebaran:  brighter  still  it  grows! 

Again  some  god  is  on  his  way  to  earth! 
A  master  is  about  to  enter  flesh 
And  tabernacle  for  a  while  with  men! 
Dim,  vast,  long-dead,  forgotten  Ages  rise 
Out  of  their  sepulchres,  and  with  them  come 
Old  heroes  who  have  lived  and  died  for  truth! 
There  is  a  sudden  noise  of  falling  crowns 
Cast  by  great  kings  in  honour  of  this  child! 
The  whispering  of  waves  on  moonlit  shores 
Dies  down  to  silence,  and  the  harmonies 
Of  spheres  that  turn  to  music  also  fail; 
There  is  a  pause  within  the  universe; 
God's  breath  is  held;  the  pulse  of  things 
Stops,  and  all  colours  blend  into  a  tone 
Which  is  the  minor  key  of  that  great  chord 
We  call  the  rainbow — ! 

75 


Only  one  bright  star 

Beacons  from  heaven — only  a  little  voice 
Sounds  through  the  world — a  cry — a  baby-cry- 
A  baby  weeping — 


76 


PILATE'S  WIFE 


PILATE'S  WIFE 

PALE  Fear,  the  joy  of  Psyche,  in  the  stone 

Against  the  glimmer  of  an  early  morn — 

Light  growing  out  of  gloom !     Haggard  and  worn, 

A  woman's  face  with  eyes  of  terror  known 

Within  a  dream  fulfilled !     A  little  moan, 

A  word  breathed  brokenly :     He  stands  forlorn, 

Crowned  with  the  crimsoned  mockery  of  thorn. 

The  babe  I  bore  to  Pilate  on  his  throne! 

Down  the  wide  arches  of  the  pillared  years 
Sounds  that  faint  cry  where  women  wail, 
Their  beauty  misted  over  with  the  tears 
That  fall  forever;  high  above  the  spears, 
The  glittering  of  helmets  and  the  mail, 
One  on  His  cross  cries:    Peace!   love  will  prevail. 


78 


PILATE'S   WIFE 

Was  it  a  dream  that  held  me  shuddering 
A  moment  past? — O  good  and  golden  dawn! 
Now  is  the  face  of  Fear  no  longer  turned 
Over  a  bare  white  shoulder,  with  the  glaze 
Of  horror  in  her  eyes;  methinks  she  smiles 
To  hear  the  flutter  of  the  temple-doves, 
Rising  to  flight  beyond  the  sound  of  horns 
Blown  by  the  Levites  to  announce  the  day. 

Was  it  a  dream !     Have  I  not  seen  His  face 
Among  the  gathered  men  from  Galilee, 
Come  up  with  garlands  on  their  heads  to  keep 
Passover?     Yesterday  I  leaned  and  looked 
From  the  great  tower  that  overtops  the  wall 
Guarding  the  Gentile's  Court — what  made  me  stand 
Breathless  and  clutching  at  my  throat? — 
He  was  so  tall  and — oh,  the  hair  of  Him! 
Confusion  overturned  the  tables,  drove 
The  money-changers  from  a  voice  that  cried : 
My  Father's  house  is  called  the  house  of  prayer, 
But  ye  have  made  it  like  a  den  of  thieves! 

Was  it  a  dream !    Lo,  as  I  slept,  He  came, 
W7oke  me  from  slumber  with  a  little  touch 
Soft  as  a  leaf  that  flutters  from  the  bough. 
First  it  was  dark,  save  for  a  silver  star 
Glancing  between  the  curtains:     'Tis  the  hand 
Of  my  lost  babe  whom  pale  Persephone 
Leads  out  of  Hades,  knowing  that  I  weep! 

79 


Forthwith  I  was  aware  of  violets, 

And — oh,  I  saw  again  the  dreamy  eyes 

Of  that  wee  one  I  held  upon  my  breast, 

Ere  all  the  world  went  cold  with  death  of  him! 

After  the  violets,  I  heard  a  voice 

That  softly  said:     Woman,  why  weepest  ihou? 

I  looked,  and  lo!  it  was  the  face  of  Him 

Who  walked  within  the  temple-court  and  drove 

The  money-changers  in  confusion  out. 

I  knew  the  wine-red  glory  of  His  hair, 

Knelt  and  then  whispered :    Lord  Adonis,  hail! 

Within  my  room  was  silver  radiance 
That  touched  the  marbled  Fear,  and  made  her  brow 
Gleam  like  the  gladness  yonder  Psyche  shows; 
The  star  that  twinkled  through  the  curtain-fold, 
Trembled  above  His  turban — white  as  snow: 
Then  it  was  given  me  to  greet  the  Child 
Celestial,  born  of  spirit — not  of  flesh; 
Child  of  the  virgin-love;  Child  of  the  dream 
Dared  through  the  ages,  since  the  primal  form 
Leaped  from  the  dust! 

Thou  art  my  little  babe? 
The  little  one  I  lost?  and  lo!  He  said: 
/  am  thy  babe-to-be,  who  shall  be  born 
Of  every  woman  when  the  sword  of  pain 
Hath  pierced  and  made  her  wise  to  mother  me! 

The  vision  faded.     Night  returned  the  star 
Between  the  curtains,  and  with  shadow  clothed 

80 


My  marbled  Fear,  lifting  the  violets 

Out  of  the  room;  trembling,  I  lay  upon 

The  black  panther  that  Pilate  slew  for  me 

And  brought  in  triumph  from  the  chase — its  head 

My  pillow — then  I  slept  and  once  more  dreamed: 

Again  the  violets!   the  Face!  the  Child! 

Lo!  they  were  scourging  Him,  where  Pilate  sat 

With  eyes  averted — silent  on  his  throne. 

Pilate!    Pilate!    thou  must  not  do  this  thing! 

The  violets  are  fading  from  His  eyes, 

Beneath  the  passion  of  a  crown  of  thorns! 

Pilate!    thou  wouldst  not  crucify  the  babe 

I  bore  to  thee — / 

Oh,  with  what  joy  I  wake 
To  find  it  was  a  dream,  and  that  the  dawn 
Shames  Fear  to  laughter!    I  will  rise  and  go 
Forth  to  the  morning  and  with  Daphne  take 
The  road  that  leads  unto  the  Mount  of  Olives; 
Find  where  the  little  trellised  arbours  are, 
Wet  with  the  dew  and  glad  because  of  blossoms 
Now  on  the  vine  or  creeping  through  the  grass; 
Sing  to  the  twitter  of  the  speckled  bird 
That  feeds  her  young,  so  jealous  of  her  joy 
And  wistful  for  my  baby  who  is  dead ! 

What  is  that  noise  like  thunder  in  the  street? 
Let  Him  be  crucified! 


81 


THOMAS  DIDYMUS 


THOMAS  DIDYMUS 

HE  found  his  way  to  truth  by  paths  of  pain, 

Proving  his  faith  beneath  the  circling  thorns 

That  pierce  the  brow  of  thought;  like  one  who  mourns 

A  comrade  dead,  he  called  and  sought  in  vain 

Mid  shadows  for  the  light.     He  too  had  lain 

Among  the  pots  empty  of  oil.     The  horns 

Of  Sabbath  sounded :     Rise!  for  day  adorns 

Earth  with  its  splendour,  and  the  shadows  wane. 

Palely  he  answered:    Mock  me  not  with  breath — 
Thy  phantom  fashioned  of  the  wistful  tears — 
He  whom  I  love  is  dead!     Forthwith  there  came 
Out  of  the  mist  a  face  with  eyes  of  flame, 
And  then  a  voice:     Thomas,  what  foolish  fears 
Made  thee  forgetful?    lo,  there  is  no  death! 


84 


THOMAS   DIDYMUS 

I  tell  thee,  Peter,  thou  hast  dreamed  this  thing — 
Sorrow  hath  made  thee  mad!     Still  dost  persist? 
O  foolish  man!     did  I  not  see  Him  dead? 
There  is  no  doubt  that  He  is  dead  and  shut 
Within  the  tomb  of  Joseph — man,  I  helped 
To  roll  the  stone  against  the  door  of  it — 
Behold  the  purple  bruise  on  this  right  hand — 
It  is  a  testament  that  He  is  dead ! 

We  will  not  laugh  again,  Peter!    Work?    Aye, 
There's  work  enough  to  do:     Yon  boat  of  thine 
Upon  the  pebbled  beach;  the  drying  net 
Frosted  with  scales  from  yester-even's  catch; 
Tiberias  itself,  an  amethyst 
That  waits  a  keel  to  carve  a  cryptic  word 
Of  sorrow  on  its  face;  these  answer:     Work! 

Fishers  of  men?    faugh!    here's  a  better  thing 
For  thee  and  me — Men?    better  far  the  brute! 

Come  with  me,  Peter,  to  the  ancient  task — 
Concern  about  the  boat  and  fishing  gear 
Will  make  thee  quite  forget  the  grief  that  mars 
Thy  solid  mind:  did  He  not  call  thee  Rock? 
Come,  friend,  and  put  thy  shoulder  to  the  prow 
Of  that  old  craft  of  thine,  sliding  the  keel 
Along  the  sand  until  it  finds  the  wave — 
There's  joy  upon  the  wave,  man,  joy!  joy!  joy! 

85 


There's  healing  for  the  heart  within  the  wind, 
Lifting  the  spell  that  made  Tiberias 
A  purple  stone  set  in  a  ring  of  gold. 
He  loved  Tiberias;  the  curving  shore; 
The  hills  above  it,  and  the  white  walled  towns — 
Capernaum  and  Magdala.     Recall 
How  oft  He  sat  among  the  high  beached  boats, 
Talking  to  children!    How  He  laughed  with  them, 
And  told  what  happens  underneath  the  lake, 
Or  in  the  sky,  or  through  the  vines  and  trees, 
Or  on  the  mountains !    While  we  mended  nets, 
Lest  one  dear  word  of  Him  be  missed. 
There  was  a  crippled  Ethiopian  lad — 
Not  more  than  five  hands  high  from  head  to  heel — 
With  eyes  like  onyx  stones,  lips  coral  red, 
Limbs  polished  ebony — a  sackcloth  rag 
Girding  his  loins — sat  always  at  His  feet, 
And  fingered  the  fine  tallith  Mary  made — 
Spoke  not  but  harkened;  still  I  see  His  hand 
Touch  tenderly  the  crisp  curls,  pause  and  smooth 
The  velvet  blackness  of  that  little  face! 
Strange  how  the  lonely  loved  Him  and  the  sad 
Crept  to  His  side;  how  every  outcast  knew 
His  coming!    Once  when  there  were  wind  and  rain, 
And  thou  wast  out  alone  upon  the  deep — 
O  brave  above  thy  brethren !    He  came  through 
The  thunder  to  the  shore  and  watched  for  thee. 
Simon!    He  called.     Thy  name  upon  His  mouth 
Was  like  the  dove  of  Noah  in  the  dark — 
Winged  whiteness  through  the  storm — and  lo !  a  shaft 

86 


Of  lightning  clove  the  murk,  discovered  thee 
Undaunted,  beating  home;.  I  saw  Him  smile 
With  joy  of  thy  strong  manhood;  heard  Him  say: 
Simon,  thou  art  a  rockl     He  loved  thy  strength, 
Thy  hardness,  man;  therefore  thou  must  be  strong 
Against  this  madness  that  doth  quite  consume 
The  sons  of  Zebedee  and  all  the  rest. 
The  dead  are  dead !    they  can  not  rise!    The  flesh 
That  knows  corruption  will  not  clothe  the  bones — 
Ashes  to  ashes,  Peter,  dust  to  dust! 

O  voice  of  Jesu!  miracle  of  sound; 
Of  eyes  of  Christ!  ineffable  and  blue. 

Come!   come!   to  work,  I  say;  for  memory 
Is  madness,  Peter:   we  must  both  forget — 
Death  lies  for  us  in  this  remembering — 
The  shore  is  haunted  by  His  joyous  feet — 
His  footprints  sing  within  the  golden  sand — 
There  is  a  whisper  on  the  wave  of  Him! 
The  lilies  of  the  field  make  me  recall 
Something  He  said  about  King  Solomon; 
The  wayside  grass  is  like  the  lengthened  roll 
On  which  the  Psalms  are  written,  and  they  tell 
Of  quiet  walks  with  Him  at  eventide 
Among  the  corn;  but  yester-noon  I  saw 
A  sparrow  fly  before  a  screaming  hawk, 
And  I  remembered  what  He  said  about 
His  Father's  care! 


87 


Yea,  I  will  go  with  thee — 
Thy  house  was  ever  His.     Perchance  thy  wife 
And  little  child  may  drive  the  spell  from  thee. 

Farewefl,  thou  shore,  ye  idle  fishing  boats ! 
Farewell,  dear  lake  of  dream,  thy  days  are  past; 
Thou  wilt  not  any  more  hear  Peter  laugh 
Or  Andrew  sing:  we  will  come  back  to  toil 
But  there  will  be  no  laughter,  neither  song 
Nor  prayer;  our  Master  whom  we  loved  is  dead! 

Peter,  this  path  is  worn  by  many  feet; 

How  often  from  our  boyhood  have  we  walked 

Hither  with  John  out  of  Capernaum! 

Thou  wast  the  strong  one;  he  the  lad  of  dreams; 

I  ever  curious,  and  questioning 

What  ye  together  held,  who  lived  each  day 

Within  a  world  of  mountains,  fields  and  sky; 

Of  green  and  scarlet  boats  and  their  brown  sails; 

Of  sandy  shores  and  bearded  fishermen. 

My  world  was  one  of  unreality, 

Whose  trees  were  ghosts  from  graves  of  men  who  died 

Before  the  flood;  and  such  my  world  is  now. 

This  did  the  Master:  made  me  love  the  world; 
Took  me,  a  prisoner  of  thought,  gave  eyes 
That  I  might  see  the  miracle  of  life; 
Gave  feet  that  I  might  go  upon  all  roads, 
Undaunted  by  the  fears  of  crippled  men 
Who  falter  where  the  strong  are  striding  by; 

88 


Gave  tongue  to  taste  a  cup  of  friendly  wine 

With  yellow  dates  and  figs,  white  wheaten  bread, 

The  hot  flesh  of  a  kid  baked  on  the  coals. 

Through  Him  I  learned  to  see  the  stars  and  know 

The  names  of  flowers  and  the  kinds  of  birds. 

One  day  He  led  me  to  a  linnet's  nest 

All  warm  and  downy  from  her  mother  wings, 

And  there  were  fledglings:    These,  the  Master  said, 

Are  miracles!    He  made  me  like  a  child, 

Taught  me  their  games,  until  sad  Didymus 

Played  with  them  on  the  shore.     From  Him  I  learned 

A  song  with  bells  of  camels  in  refrain 

And  singing  of  the  sands  beneath  the  wind. 

Thomas,  He  often  said  to  me,  if  tJiou 

Wouldst  give  a  gospel  to  the  world,  then  know 

All  things  are  good;  if  thou  wouldst  save  a  soul, 

Thine  own  must  be  a  candle  in  the  dark — 

Shining  that  men  may  see  and  follow  it. 

Miss  nothing — all  thou  seest  is  of  God! 

The  Pharisees  make  much  of  fast  and  tears; 

Taste  thou  and  feel  the  preciousness  of  life: 

For  when  the  world  is  not  aware  of  joy, 

God  is  denied. 

Now  since  I  helped  to  roll 
The  stone  against  the  tomb,  I  am  returned 
To  my  old  world  of  shadow — Love  is  dead! 
I  can  believe  no  more.    The  eyes  of  heaven 
Are  closed  in  sleep.     The  angels  fold  their  wings 
And  hide  their  heads,  indifferent  to  harps. 

89 


There  is  no  music  in  the  sky — a  cross 

Hath  silenced  everything.     The  world  is  cold. 

Well,  here's  the  house  at  last — how  I  have  talked ! 
I  have  forgotten  thee  in  my  own  grief — 
The  grief  that  will  make  me  as  mad  as  thou 
And  all  the  rest. — Ah,  no!    the  dead  rise  not. 
What  sayest  thou? — Man,  I  should  want  to  place 
This  hand  upon  the  wounds,  ere  I  believed 
The  word  of  Mary! 

I  will  not  go  in — 

Let  me  rest  here  beside  the  open  door. 
Thy  wife  is  waiting,  Peter,  and  the  child; 
The  evening  meal  is  on  the  table — spread 
As  when  He  supped  with  us  in  yonder  room — 
Go  thou  within — 

The  stranger!   who  is  he? 
Peter,  who  is  the  stranger  in  thy  house? 
The  child  is  on  His  knee! — Peter,  a  scar 
Is  on  the  hand  that  plays  among  the  curls, 
And  little  marks  of  pain  are  on  His  brow! 
Peter!     He  looks  at  me — 

My  Lord  and  God! 


90 


MARY 


MARY 

FAIREST  of  women  must  have  been  that  maid 
To  whom  the  great  archangel  Gabriel 
Announced  Messiah.     Were  there  asphodel, 
Rue,  violet  and  rose  within  the  glade 
Of  Mary's  vision?    Do  not  be  afraid, 
The  Presence  whispered,  King  Emmanuel 
Cometh  to  earth!    His  voice  was  like  a  bell 
Softened  by  distance,  ere  its  clangour  fade. 

Tender  is  Gabriel — the  lord  of  birth; 
He  comes  to  mothers  with  white  folded  wings, 
And  eyes  like  pansies  misted  by  the  dew: 
The  little  cradle-song  a  woman  sings, 
Crooning  above  her  babe,  that  angel  knew 
When  all  the  morning  stars  hosannaed  earth! 


MARY 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  mothered  Him — 
The  past  is  clouded  by  the  many  years, 
And  I  am  very  old.     Was  it  a  dream — 
Those  angel-faces  bending  from  the  blue, 
With  far  hosannas  flung  upon  the  night? 

Bend  close  to  me,  my  John,  for  death  is  near, 
And  I  would  tell  thee  what  is  in  my  heart — 
A  tale  of  earth  and  star  and  seraphim. 

The  roar  of  Ephesus  is  like  the  wind 

Among  the  olive-groves  of  Nazareth ! 

I  like  not  Ephesus.     I  faint  to  see 

The  little  white-walled  town  where  Jesu  played ! 

I  like  not  Ephesus;  Diana's  face 

Haunts  me! 

Throw  wide  the  lattice;  let  the  air 
Breathe  on  my  face;  how  peaceful  is  the  sky! 
I  am  not  lonely  when  I  see  the  stars. 
On  such  a  night  we  fled  from  Herod,  crossed 
The  Jordan;  when  the  great  round  moon  peeped  out 
Between  the  cedars,  I  heard  Jesu  laugh 
And  call  to  it. 

Beloved!    I  grow  weak — 
Breathing  is  pain — enfold  me  with  thine  arms 
And  lift  me  up — I  want  to  keep  the  stars 

03 


From  dancing  down  the  pavement  of  the  night ! 
Now  while  I  live  a  little  longer,  take 
My  tender,  broken  memories  of  Him: 
He  was  like  other  children;  wee  white  hands 
Would  close  and  open  on  my  mother-breasts 
In  joy  of  life,  and  there  were  baby-words 
Which  only  women  know  who  bring  to  birth. 
He  was  a  child  of  laughter,  loved  the  light, 
Would  crawl  to  clutch  a  sunbeam  on  the  floor. 
Once  when  a  bird  lit  on  the  window-ledge, 
And  He  sat  gazing  with  wide-open  eyes, 
A  smile  upon  His  lips,  He  made  the  noise 
A  fledgling  makes — forthwith,  the  feathered  one 
Flew  down  to  Him  and  perched  on  His  right  hand! 
When  He  first  walked  and  found  the  garden-path 
To  Joseph's  shop,  there  was  a  sound  of  laughter — 
Deep  laughter  of  a  man  blent  with  the  sound 
Sweeter  than  reedy  pipes,  the  way  He  laughed ! 
His  arms  grew  strong  from  labouring  to  shape 
Plough  handles  and  the  heavy  oxen  yoke; 
His  breast  broadened;  for  mighty  were  the  blows 
Of  His  axe  on  the  timber.     He  liked  food; 
Slept  well;  rose  early,  singing  as  He  dressed, 
Stole  out  to  meet  the  dawn  with  water-jars 
And  filled  them  for  His  mother  at  the  well. 
The  children  used  to  laugh  and  clap  their  hands 
When  He  went  by  them  coming  home  from  school. 
Old  men  and  women  loved  to  touch  His  hair 
And  whisper  blessing  on  His  sun-gold  head. 
His  eyes  were  like  two  pansies  in  the  wheat; 

94 


His  mouth  was  music  and  His  hands  were  love! 

But  there  were  those  strange  moments  when  His  face 

Shone  like  the  star  that  rose  above  His  birth; 

Then  He  would  go  from  me  and  stay  apart. 

The  hill  beyond  the  town  had  charms  for  Him; 

This  He  would  climb  and  dream  a  morning  through, 

Or  stay  until  the  vesper-planet  came. 

Once  I  did  chide  Him,  and  I  said :     0  Son! 

Thy  father  had  to  work  alone  this  day; 

Thy  mother  brought  the  water  from  the  well; 

Thy  playmates  waited  for  thee  in  the  field; 

It  is  not  good  to  stray  so  far  alone! 

And  He  made  answer:    0  my  mother  dear, 

God  called  me  from  the  hill  and  I  obeyed! 

Lo!  there  was  that  upon  His  face  I  saw 

When  I  rebuked  Him  in  the  temple-court; 

When  I  spoke  to  Him  of  the  wedding  wine; 

When  I  sought  after  Him  with  my  son  James; 

When  He  fell  fainting  underneath  His  cross! 

This  is  the  agony  all  mothers  know, 
When  God  begins  to  claim  what  they  have  borne; 
When  life  calls  and  the  strong  man  rises  up 
To  leave  his  mother  weeping  at  the  door; 
Yea,  ever  since  Eve  bare  to  Adam  Cain, 
This  pain  hath  pierced  all  women  like  a  sword — 
Will  pierce  till  every  woman's  work  is  done — 
Hath  pierced  through  my  soul,  as  the  angel  said! 
Therefore  doth  Mary  with  her  dying  breath 
Plead  in  the  name  of  Jesu  for  all  mothers : 

95 


0  sanctify  the  fountains  and  build  walls 

To  guard  from  taint  those  everlasting  springs! 

'Tis  woman's  secret — mothering  of  babes — 

Pain  is  her  sceptre,  love  her  robe  and  crown; 

She  is  the  warder  of  the  waiting  stars — 

Those  winged  sons  of  the  morning — those  great  lords 

Who  sang  across  the  chaos  and  the  void 

When  the  foundations  of  the  earth  were  laid — 

Those  incarnating  Christs  who  seek  through  her 

Their  Bethlehems  and  wind-swept  Calvaries! 

Teach  every  woman  how  Maid  M ary's  Son 

Is  God's  oath  that  no  mother  bears  in  vain; 

That  every  pang  of  child-birth  is  the  price 

Paid  for  the  coming  of  a  starry  Christ; 

That  all  the  angels  fold  their  wings  and  kneel 

When  God  is  born  again!     There  is  no  joy, 

There  are  no  cadences  of  smitten  harps, 

Kept  back  from  any  little  babe  at  birth: 

The  planets  on  their  golden  axles  turn; 

The  suns  vibrate  their  glory  through  the  night; 

The  constellations  call  across  their  courts, 

Flinging  from  all  the  high  eternal  towers — 

Glory  to  God!    Peace  and  good  will  to  men! 

For  God  is  in  the  things  which  He  hath  made. 

The  clustered  gourds  that  grow  along  the  wall; 

The  dew  upon  the  damson  and  the  fig; 

The  brown  of  lengthened  furrows  lately  ploughed; 

Stir  of  the  sap,  unfolding  of  green  leaves, 

Upthrust  of  grass  and  corn,  return  of  birds — 

96 


Nest-building  underneath  protecting  boughs 
With  little  songs  of  mating  and  of  love; 
Teach:    every  mother  is  a  miracle! 

What  was  He,  ere  His  body  grew  in  me? 
What  is  He,  now  that  He  is  gone  from  me? 
The  Master!    Aye,  John,  thou  hast  found  the  word- 
He  proved  that  on  the  cross  of  Golgotha! 
And  of  all  mothers  Mary  is  most  blessed, 
Who  held  Him  first  and  suffered  ere  He  found 
Gethsemane!     I  knew  the  nail  and  thorn 
Before  they  fastened  Him  upon  a  tree — 
His  eloi  lama  sabbacthani 
Fell  from  my  lips  in  birth-pangs  of  His  life! 

John!     it  grows  dark — a  chill  is  on  my  face! 
See!    there — a  little  baby  on  the  floor: 
His  hair  is  like  the  tassels  of  the  corn; 
His  eyes  are  pansies  growing  in  the  wheat! 
Nay,  not  a  baby  now:   my  starry  boy, 
Broad-breasted,  like  a  lion  in  His  strength! 
Nay,  not  a  boy:     Christ  of  Capernaum, 
The  friend  of  sinners,  healer  of  all  hurts — 
White  is  the  turban  that  adorns  His  brow! 
Now  it  is  Christ  of  Golgotha,  blood-stained 
And  crowned  with  thorns  on  His  uplifted  cross! 
He  is  among  the  golden  candlesticks; 
His  eyes  are  brighter  than  the  noon-day  sun; 
His  voice  is  like  the  waves  upon  the  shore; 

97 


His  feet  are  like  two  tongues  of  cloven  fire 
Mirrored  forever  in  a  sea  of  glass, 
And  there  are  multitudes  of  lifted  hands 
Holding  white  flowers  to  adore  His  name — 
Jesu — / 


PAUL  TO  TIMOTHY 


PAUL  TO  TIMOTHY 

WITHIN  the  tower  of  eternal  Time 
Great  names  are  hung,  and  each  is  like  a  bell 
Heard  through  the  distant  harmonies  that  swell 
To  clear,  melodious  intervals  of  chime: 
Immortal  names  of  those  who  stood  sublime 
Where  others  faltered,  turned  aside,  or  fell; 
W7ho  took  no  pledges  from  the  hand  of  Hell, 
Brave  on  the  path  which  only  heroes  climb. 

And  of  these  tones  that  from  Time's  tower  fall, 
Pealing  the  ages  by,  one  through  the  chord 
Carries  the  music  of  a  great  refrain- 
Hark!  how  its  melody  on  earth  is  poured 
In  silver  tumult,  as  of  summer  rain — 
O  dominant,  persistent  name  of  Paul! 


100 


PAUL  TO  TIMOTHY 

The  long  day  ends  at  last,  O  Timothy, 
And  I,  Paul,  prisoner  of  Jesus  Christ, 
Wait  for  the  dark.     Upon  my  window-ledge 
A  sparrow  twitters,  pecks  at  the  iron  bars 
As  though  to  set  me  free  this  night  of  Rome. 
A  lad  is  singing  somewhere  in  the  street; 
His  voice,  careless  and  free,  recalls  Cilicia — 
Tarsus,  my  city,  where  the  Cydnus  flows — 
Recalls  those  first,  far  days  when  in  my  heart 
No  pain  had  found  a  place,  and  I  was  Saul 
The  Benjamite,  named  for  the  son  of  Kish. 

How  swiftly  Age  turns  back  the  gate  of  Time, 
And  with  what  eager  pace  pursues  the  path 
Trod  by  the  feet  of  Childhood !    I  can  see 
The  scarlet-prowed  Phenician  ships,  triremes 
Down  from  the  Tiber,  and  Egyptian  barges; 
Abundant  fruitage  of  the  date  and  palm, 
Tall,  Bacchic  amphora,  the  perfumed  bales 
Of  Tyrian  purple,  piled  along  the  quay: 
Again  I  hear  the  sailors  and  their  songs, 
The  strange,  brown  mariners  of  many  seas, 
With  arms  like  anchor-cables  in  their  strength. 
Oh,  then  was  I  a  wanderer  of  earth, 
And  dreamed  of  brave  adventure  in  far  lands! 

They  say  the  Hebrew  burning  in  my  blood 
Closed  all  life's  doors,  save  one,  upon  the  world; 

101 


That  I,  the  Pharisee  of  Pharisees, 

Contemned  the  beauty  and  the  song  of  Greece! 

How  little  do  they  know,  my  Timothy 

My  dear  disciple  and  my  bosom  friend — 

Heart,  soul,  feet,  hands,  eyes,  ears  and  lips  of  Paul — 

How  little  do  they  know! 

To-morrow  morn, 

Without  the  city  wall,  I  shall  kneel  down 
Before  the  Roman  sword  and  die! — O  Death, 
Where  is  thy  sting?     O  Grave     .     .     . 

The  lad  still  sings — 

Would  thou  couldst  hear  his  song!     Anacreon? 
Nay — Sappho!     He?     Athenian,  I  think, 
'Tis  such  a  voice  as  that  Eunice  heard, 
Son  of  the  Faith  once  and  for  all  delivered, 
Telling  of  Timothy  returning  home, 
Or  ever  thou  didst  follow  Christ  and  Paul. 
Why  doth  he  sing  and  hale  me  back  to  life — 
Who  on  the  morn  must  die?    And  Sappho's  song! 
Flee  from  this  world  ordained  to  death ! 
The  wrath  of  God  is  kindled  in  the  sky, 
And  Babylon  shall  be  consumed  in  smoke! 

How  all  the  gold  is  gone  from  out  the  west — 
'Tis  crimson  now,  and  on  the  Forum  falls 
A  menace  as  of  blood ! — O  Babylon ! 
The  cup  of  thine  iniquity  is  full, 
And  runneth  over  even  to  the  ground. 
Still  doth  he  sing;  and  always  Sappho's  song! 

102 


O  Greece!  the  tongue  of  Homer  and  of  Paul 
Is  in  that  song;  behold,  the  sound  thereof 
Goes  forth  unto  the  ends  of  all  the  world ! 

How  little  do  they  know,  son  Timothy, 
Of  Paul,  the  prisoner  of  Jesus  Christ! 
A  Pharisee?    yea,  straitest  of  that  sect; 
Learned  in  the  Law?     aye,  from  Gamaliel; 
A  persecutor  of  the  Church  of  God? 
Saul  who  consented  unto  Stephen's  death — 
Ah,  woe  is  me!    Yet  little  do  they  know, 
Who  know  not  this:  The  law  of  sin  and  death 
Is  done  away  in  Christ  by  whom  all  things 
Are  sanctified;  and  neither  Jew  nor  Greek, 
And  neither  bond  nor  free,  exist  in  Him 
Who  is  the  first  begotten  Son  of  God, 
The  keystone  of  life's  slow  ascending  arch, 
And  who  completeth  all  things  in  Himself. 
Nathless,  I  found  this  truth  not  easily: 
In  those  far  boyhood  days  beside  the  Cydnus, 
Watching  the  sailors  and  the  ships,  I  felt 
Shame  of  my  passion  for  the  many  tones 
And  tinctures  of  the  coloured  sails  and  prows; 
Shame  at  the  tumult  in  my  heart  at  songs 
Sung  by  the  boatmen;  for  the  Law  is  hard, 
And  presseth  with  a  heavy  hand  upon 
Youth  and  the  innocent  delights  of  youth. 

Young  Rabbi  Saul  the  Thunderer,  and  Saul 
Consenting  unto  Stephen's  death,  are  dead — 

103 


Slain  by  the  piercing  of  the  cross  of  Christ; 
Christ  of  the  lilies — He  who  loved  the  fields, 
And  heard  the  children  in  the  market  place 
Complaining  at  the  unresponsive  feet, 
And  ears  deaf  to  their  piping  and  their  song. 
Doth  He  know  my  lad  singing  in  the  street? 
My  young  Athenian,  whose  voice  for  Paul 
Cries  Ave  atque  Vale  on  the  world ! 

Christ  is  not  quickly  learned,  and  gradual 
Is  the  progression  of  a  soul  to  Him. 
Hard  strove  I  through  the  barriers  of  thought, 
And  one  by  one  dissolved  the  old  ideas 
That  misted  over  mountains  of  desire; 
Before  I  found  that  all  things  beautiful, 
Like  lilies  of  the  open  field,  are  spread 
Beneath  the  benediction  of  His  love. 

Write  this  again:     There  is  no  bond  nor  free! 
This  is  the  Faith;  and  this  is  Jesus  Christ, 
The  Saviour  of  the  world!     Think  what  it  means, 
O  Timothy — this  Faith  thou  hast  received 
To  give  and  guard  at  Ephesus.     Let  fall 
Distinctions  from  henceforth,  and  keep  in  one 
The  diverse  aspirations  of  mankind. 
Thou  wilt  remember  what  I  lately  wrote — 
The  feet  of  him  who  bears  that  letter  speed, 
As  sped  Pheidippides :    All  utterance 
That  is  inspired  comes  only  out  of  God; 
For  nothing  that  is  beautiful  and  true 

104 


Lives  but  by  breathing  of  the  Holy  Ghost! 

And  they,  who  like  this  foredoomed  Babylon 

Build  citadels  cemented  by  men's  blood, 

Are  numbered  with  the  damned!     Do  I  not  know? 

Am  I  not  Paul,  the  prisoner  of  Christ? 

Creators  of  sweet  sound  and  lovely  form 

Care  not  for  Babylon :   they  seek  the  hills, 

And  find  God  in  the  thunder  of  the  sea; 

They  know  Him  where  the  cedar  and  the  pine 

Are  vocal  with  the  passion  of  all  souls 

That  are  with  dross  of  earth  unsatisfied; 

This  have  I  learned  from  the  Athenian 

Who  sings  the  joy  of  Sappho  unto  Paul. 

Gone  are  the  gold  and  scarlet  from  the  west; 
Night  falls,  and  Rome  is  like  the  Galaxy- 
Indefinite  with  stars!    A  myriad 
Of  tiny  flames  are  flaring  on  the  hills, 
And  in  those  evening  fires  the  souls  of  men 
Are  manifested — souls  that  upward  burn 
In  emulation  of  the  beautiful; 
For  the  invisible,  pure  things  of  Him, 
From  the  creation  of  the  world,  are  seen 
And  understood  by  what  is  made.     One  God, 
One  Law,  one  Hope,  one  Faith  and  one  desire, 
Are  in  the  impulse  of  creative  hands, 
And  on  the  lips  that  sing — as  sings  the  lad 
To  Paul  the  prisoner,  great  Sappho's  song! 


105 


PORPHYRY  TO  MARCELLA 


PORPHYRY  TO  MARCELLA 

SHOULD  we  not  render  tribute  to  the  kings 
Who  doffed  their  diadems  to  one  of  thorns? 
Forgetful  of  the  murk  of  those  dull  morns, 
Men  miss  the  whiteness  of  triumphant  wings; 
The  song  that  fell  from  brave  prophetic  strings 
Of  lifted  harps;  announcement  of  the  horns 
Blown  by  glad  heralds:  yea,  Tradition  scorns 
Those  minstrels,  cries :     Their  deeds  were  evil  things] 

O  unclaimed  brethren  of  our  risen  Lord! 
We  call  you  saints  among  the  holiest 
Who  unto  death,  eternal  Christ  confest; 
Because  your  praise  was  also  to  Him  poured, 
His  be  your  guerdon  and  your  great  reward: 
These  are  among  my  brightest  and  my  best! 


108 


PORPHYRY  TO  MARCELLA 

I  lay  at  Lilybseum  almost  dead, 
When  my  dear  master,  Plotinus,  found  me; 
Hunger  and  tears  had  well  nigh  set  the  soul 
Free  from  the  flesh  that  keeps  it  prisoner. 
Loriginus  was  the  first  to  show  the  way — 
Malchus,  my  name,  he  changed  to  Porphyry, 
Because  I  wore  the  purple  robe  of  Tyre, 
The  city  of  my  birth — he  had  no  one 
More  hungry  for  his  measured  words  than  I; 
He  was  so  learned  that  all  the  books  of  Greece 
And  Alexandria  were  in  his  mind! 
At  length  I  came  to  Rome,  a  youth  of  thirty. 
Uplifted  in  my  pride,  I  sought  to  prove 
Amelius  and  his  great  master  wrong; 
Failed  in  my  argument;  found  that  defeat 
Was  triumph,  for  it  led  to  Plotinus! 
Six  years  I  studied,  then  in  wild  despair 
Fled  unto  Lilybaeum — fled  in  tears, 
Crying:     Soul,  thou  art  fettered  by  tlie  flesh: 
Come,  Death,  and  set  me  free  to  find  the  light! 
For  days  I  did  not  know  the  taste  of  food; 
Thin  as  a  palimpsest,  my  body  grew 
Diaphanous — the  older  word  revealed 
Under  the  recent  scripture  of  new  birth; 
I  hated  life,  and  lay  me  down  to  die! 
There  was  no  pleasure  in  the  cleansing  bath 
That  makes  the  body  almost  worth  its  soul. 
I  turned  from  music  that  can  pierce  the  flesh, 

109 


And  touch  the  soul;  avoided  every  face, 
Vowing  no  friend  should  tempt  me  back  to  life. 
Then  came  the  Master  with  the  spoken  word 
That  only  the  Initiate  may  hear, 
And  called  me  back  to  life  and  its  strait  path 
All  souls  must  tread  up  far  ascending  planes 
Of  matter  till  the  mystic  moment  comes. 

Marcella,  ere  I  close  these  written  words 
Meant  for  thy  consolation  and  thy  peace, 
A  something  further  I  would  add — a  thought 
Fashioned  through  contact  with  the  creed  of  Christ, 
Which  Origen  taught  me  at  Csesarea: 
Philosophy  is  threatened  by  the  Christ; 
Our  days  are  torn  by  this  tremendous  strife 
'Twixt  past  and  present,  and  all  ancient  thought 
Is  strangled  by  the  pressure  of  His  word, 
Who  gives  a  life  that  may  be  seen  of  men — 
Handled  and  understood.     Philosophy 
Is  not  a  thing  for  hardened  hands  to  grasp, 
Nor  for  dim,  labour-wearied  eyes  to  see. 
The  slave  who  bends  above  the  heavy  oar, 
Grotesque  and  like  a  demon  in  the  dark 
Of  his  foul  galley-prison,  can  not  see 
The  sunlight  on  the  wave,  the  distant  shore 
With  palms  like  palaces  beneath  the  blue; 
He  can  not  feel  the  freshness  of  the  wind 
Blowing  the  breath  of  vineyards  from  the  hills: 
A  sip  of  water  from  the  broken  gourd — 
Guarded  from  yonder  thirsty  Nubian — 

110 


A  moment's  hasty  munching  of  dried  dates; 

A  little  sigh  for  freedom  he  has  lost, 

And,  later,  sleep  upon  the  plunging  deck; 

These  are  the  measure  of  his  dreary  life. 

He  has  no  leisure  for  the  figured  stars, 

No  time  to  ponder  on  the  Pleiades, 

Or  mark  the  distance  of  Alcyone; 

There  is  no  wonder  anywhere  for  him, 

No  joy  in  crocuses  and  asphodels, 

No  madness  in  the  music  of  the  rain, 

No  fine,  sweet  aspiration  bred  of  nights 

Under  the  opal  crescent  of  the  moon: 

Wouldst  thou  gain  from  him  lasting  gratitude, 

Then  talk  not  thou  to  him  of  eidola, 

But  give  him  food  and  rest,  and  promise  him 

The  liberty  and  love  that  he  has  lost! 

So  I  have  named  and  crowned  Christ  conqueror, 

Who  is  the  king  of  slaves  and  all  who  bow 

Beneath  some  yoke!    He  gives  to  fettered  life 

What  thoughtful  Plato  can  not  hope  to  give: 

A  sip  of  water  with  a  leaf  of  dates; 

A  little  balm  for  limbs  bruised  by  the  chain; 

A  dream  of  final  freedom  from  the  oar. 

Yet  there  is  much  that  I  would  criticise — 
Not  Christ,  but  those  who  name  Him  through  the  world! 
I  know  the  writings  well,  have  studied  them 
At  Csesarea  under  Origen— 
The  greatest  teacher  of  the  Nazarene — 
Find  Christianity  is  not  the  Christ. 

Ill 


As  Plato's  thought  was  clouded  by  the  words 

Of  those  who  claimed  to  be  interpreters, 

So  Christ  is  hindered  by  the  jealousies, 

Factions  and  sects  that  wrangle  in  His  name. 

I  am  not  hostile  to  the  Carpenter, 

Who  is  a  marble  pillar  on  the  sands 

All  desolate  and  bare  save  of  its  beauty! 

No  written  word  can  ever  tell  of  Him, 

Yea,  though  a  god  came  down  from  heaven  to  earth, 

And  wrote  it  in  a  book  of  beaten  gold, 

Graving  each  letter  with  a  fiery  star — 

The  mystic  and  forbidden  hieroglyph 

That  opens  to  the  Adept  all  the  doors 

Of  Wisdom;  it  would  fail  to  figure  Him! 

No  eye  of  earth  could  gaze  upon  His  face, 

For  when  He  passed  this  way  Christ  wore  a  veil; 

He  suffered  men  to  touch  a  seamless  robe, 

Or  rattle  dice  for  it  beneath  the  cross, 

Forgetful  of  the  god  above  the  crowd! 

Philosophy  is  not  a  truth  for  slaves; 

It  is  for  growing  gods  like  Plotinus. 

These  teachers  of  the  Christ  would  prostitute 

Philosophy  to  that  ignoble  bed 

Where  Superstition  dreams,  and  from  this  fate 

Must  I  set  Wisdom  free;  else  from  the  sin 

A  child  be  born  to  wet  the  world  with  blood, 

And  blurr  the  page  of  history  with  tears ! 


112 


Came  He  too  soon,  Marcella?     was  Christ  cursed, 
Like  His  own  fig-tree,  putting  forth  His  leaves 
Before  their  season?     would  a  later  age 
Have  understood  Him  better?     So  it  was, 
And  shall  be:     One  who  thinks  among  the  stars, 
While  others  grope  for  pebbles  at  His  feet! 


113 


DANTE 

Behold  the  man  who  hath  been  down  in  hell! 
Ravenna  whispered  when  Dante  walked  by. 
In  hell?     yea,  for  his  great  soul  dared  to  try 
All  paths  of  that  adventure  which  befell 
Him  on  the  way  to  heaven.     No  one  can  tell 
What  God  doth  with  a  prophet  ere  his  cry 
Waken  a  world  from  sleep  with  words  that  fly, 
Like  arrows,  swift  and  irresistible. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  dim  Gethsemanes, 
After  the  dregs  of  Grief's  most  bitter  cup; 
Spent  with  the  passion  of  a  bloody  sweat; 
How  earth's  immortal,  mighty  minstrels  seize 
Their  harps  celestial,  and  with  song  play  up 
The  host  from  Golgotha  to  Olivet! 


116 


DANTE 

Guido,  I  have  held  the  torch  of  truth 
To  this  bewildered  age  of  many  lies; 
And  ere  Ravenna  take  my  weary  bones, 
Dante  hath  somewhat  for  thy  patient  ear. 
The  books  are  in  thy  hands;  do  thou  with  them 
As  it  seems  best  to  thee:  men  will  not  know 
The  secret  doctrine  till  the  world  hath  won 
The  bliss  of  Beatrice;  found  the  morn 
Above  the  misted  peaks  of  Purgatory; 
Left  Hell  behind  and  its  tormenting  hate! 
Thou  wilt  not  see  that  day;  the  world  will  cry 
Through  centuries  for  Dante's  hidden  word. 

What  is  my  meaning?  this:  Each  soul  must  go 
Down  every  gulf  of  Hell,  until  it  find 
That  frozen  centre  in  the  love  of  self; 
For  Purgatory's  bleak  ascent  begins 
Only  when  each  wan  pilgrim  finds  how  cold 
Is  love  self-centred,  seeking  for  its  own. 
The  ancient  strife  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf 
That  rends  the  states  asunder,  pouring  blood 
On  Italy,  as  though  the  grapes  that  grew 
From  Arno  and  the  Tiber  to  the  Po 
Were  crushed  and  emptied  in  a  flood  of  wine, 
Is  proof  of  what  I  say :   Men  will  not  hear 
The  word  of  Dante,  they  must  wait  until 
The  King  of  Love  is  placed  on  Peter's  throne, 
And  Florence,  Rome  and  Rimmini  are  one! 

117 


The  books  thou  hast  are  but  a  parable, 

An  image  of  ^Eonian  Romance; 

The  tale  of  every  man  is  written  there: 

Lose  not  thyself  in  symbols;  lift  thy  thought 

Up  to  the  height  of  spirit;  strive  to  win 

The  vision  that  no  earthly  eye  hath  seen. 

The  pilgrim  journeying  upon  life's  way, 

And  finding  torment,  is  the  human  soul — 

I  figure  him  as  Dante  in  the  books; 

Virgil  is  Mind,  and  Beatrice  Christ. 

Think  on  the  soul,  divine  its  mystery: 

By  Christ  all  things  are  made;  He  is  the  urge 

Of  matter,  is  the  principle  that  seeks 

Ascent  through  atoms  till  it  find  the  star! 

The  soul  is  Christ;  the  blossom  from  the  vine; 

A  sword  within  the  sheath;  a  diamond 

Set  in  a  ring;  wine  in  a  stoppered  jar. 

Truth  must  be  hidden  in  old  metaphors, 
Lest  watchful  Mother  Church  smell  heresy, 
And  interdict  my  books !     Strange  how  the  priest 
Fails  as  a  prophet;  is  grown  blind  to  stars 
That  beacon  wise  men,  while  the  written  word 
Blurrs  from  the  droppings  of  his  altar  lights! 
This  talk  now  of  a  local  hell  and  heaven; 
The  cleansing  pains  of  penance  and  the  like; 
The  praying  of  a  soul  out  of  one  place 
Into  another — but  there!  the  walls  have  ears, 
And  sometimes  whispered  words  may  carry  far — 
I  think,  Guido,  thou  dost  understand — 

US 


Let  us  return:     Hell  is  the  way  of  Christ, 

The  school  wherein  each  soul  must  learn  to  read 

The  alphabet  of  which  Christ  also  saith : 

I  am  the  first  and  the  last!  a  stage  of  growth; 

A  mile  upon  the  march  among  the  stars! 

Thou  art  a  cunning  player  on  the  lute, 

Hast  sung  my  Terza  Rima  to  the  strings, 

While  all  Ravenna  listened;  dost  thou  tune 

An  instrument  according  to  the  tone? 

And  if,  because  of  tension  and  of  strain, 

The  strings  snap,  dost  thou  lay  the  lute  aside? 

Not  so,  my  friend ;  for  there  are  other  strings 

To  make  the  triple  melodies  again. 

The  soul  is  an  immortal  instrument 

Played  by  the  Master — Christ  on  many  chords; 

He  strings  it  with  the  functions  of  the  flesh, 

And  keys  them  up  according  to  His  will, 

Making  the  perfect  harmonies  through  pain! 

What  if  the  body  fail  and  discord  come? 

Well,  there  are  other  bodies  for  the  soul 

Which  must  endure  the  trial,  till  the  notes 

Are  equal  and  the  Player  satisfied. 

Yea,  every  human  soul  hath  its  own  Christ — 

The  Beatrice  of  celestial  dream. 

The  Christ  of  Jesu  proved  His  instrument, 

Whose  cross  is  pledge  that  every  cross  doth  rise 

For  each  soul's  triumph,  till  eternal  song 

Blend  with  the  music  of  the  Morning  Stars. 


119 


Take  now  my  figure  of  the  Mantuan — 
Virgil  who  guides  the  pilgrim  on  his  way: 
Reason  is  that  persistence  of  the  soul, 
Which  leads  it  down  the  awful  zones  of  fear, 
Proving  all  things.     The  soul  is  born  of  Christ, 
But  Reason  leads  that  Child  forth  on  the  Path 
Till  he  return  instructed.     Note  the  place 
Of  Purgatory — opposite  to  Hell; 
Its  seven  rings  are  cycles  of  re-birth 
Through  which  the  soul  ascends  to  Paradise. 
Each  fall  must  have  a  corresponding  rise; 
We  must  go  up  through  that  which  was  descent, 
Must  win  to  victory  where  we  have  failed. 

Thou  wilt  remember  all  the  pits  of  Hell; 

The  fearful  sweep  down  deeper  gulfs  of  pain; 

The  trees  that  bled;  the  hate  that  gnawed  the  skull 

Of  its  old  enemy;  the  gates  of  Dis: 

These  are  but  pageantries  of  thine  own  soul, 

The  downward  progress  of  thyself  past  sin ! 

The  sin  thou  hatest,  thou  hast  somewhere  sinned; 

Somewhere  of  old  thou  didst  pass  through  that  sphere, 

And  learned  its  terror:  thou  hast  gained  one  step 

Up  the  ascent  that  ends  with  Beatrice! 

Now  as  each  soul  draws  nigh  its  waiting  Christ, 
It  takes  on  character  of  that  same  Lord, 
And  reaches  down  another  soul  to  save; 
This  taught  the  Master:   When  thou  hast  been  changed, 
Make  strong  thy  brother!    Lift  the  feeble  hands; 

120 


Bind  up  the  wounds;  sing  to  the  desolate; 
Go  forth  and  cry  aloud  in  all  the  streets: 
Come,  for  the  feast  is  ready — ye  are  called! 
Summon  the  poor,  the  halt,  the  dumb,  the  blind, 
Begging  along  the  highway  of  the  world; 
Speak  to  the  painted  harlot  and  the  thief: 
Put  on  your  wedding  garment — Christ  is  come! 
Rebuke  the  trumpets  and  the  drums  of  strife, 
Cry  to  the  captains  and  the  lords  of  war: 
Know  ye  the  marriage  of  the  Lamb  is  nigh, 
And  ye  are  called  unto  the  wedding-feast? 
Say  to  the  Pope  enthroned  on  Peter's  chair: 
Descend  and  walk  beneath  thy  cross  through  Rome, 
And  on  the  Hill  of  Love  be  crucified! 

Mix  me  a  cup  of  water  and  of  wine — 

I  grow  too  weak  to  talk.  .  .  .    There!  let  me  sleep — 

I  may  dream  of  the  lovely  towered  town 

That  will  not  give  me  place  to  rest  my  head. 

I  ache  for  Florence  and  her  terraced  hills; 

The  gleam  of  Arno  underneath  the  bridge; 

The  song  of  troubadours  at  carnival; 

The  pavements  and  the  pillars  and  the  domes! 

Snuff  out  the  candle.    Friend  of  mine,  good  night! 


121 


JOAN  OF  ARC 


JOAN  OF  ARC 

DREAMS  of  Domremy :  There's  a  little  hill 

Of  apricots  and  grape-vines,  looking  down 

Upon  the  towers  of  an  ancient  town, 

Red  roofs,  gardens  and  cobbled  streets,  where  still 

Maid  Joan  communes  with  Michael;  'tis  her  will 

France  shall  be  free:   kissed  by  the  sun,  her  brown, 

Bare  arms  are  lifted  to  a  lily-crown 

From  which  wild  odours  of  the  blossoms  spill. 

Hark!  from  the  distance  throated  thunders  roll; 
The  sky  is  shaken  by  a  bursting  shell; 
Pillars  of  smoke,  like  hostile  giants,  stand 
Over  the  meadows  of  that  sunny  land: 
Back  from  my  people!    0  ye  hounds  of  hell — 
Strike  for  thy  freedom,  France,  and  for  thy  soul! 


124 


JOAN   OF  ARC 

The  wind  of  dear  Domremy  kissed  my  face; 

Immortal  gladness  grew  within  the  wood; 

Wonder  went  with  me  down  amid  the  corn, 

Beneath  the  far  infinitude  of  sky! 

Now  when  the  good  God  saw  I  loved  His  world, 

He  was  so  pleased  He  called  one  of  the  saints 

And  said  to  him :    Dost  thou  behold  yon  maid 

Kneeling  before  my  flowers?    since  she  cares 

For  these  my  little  ones,  I  give  to  her 

The  saving  of  fair  France!    Go  unto  Joan; 

Be  voices,  sudden  visions,  frequent  gleams 

Of  glory  slanting  through  the  swaying  trees; 

Hurt  her  with  beauty,  vex  her  soul  with  joy 

Of  finding  what  the  waters  say  at  night, 

When  all  the  stars  go  wading  in  the  brook, 

Swim  with  the  lilies  on  the  dappled  pool 

Or  sail  the  moonlit  margin  of  the  sea! 

First  I  was  made  aware  of  one  new  note 
Thrilling  the  rapture  of  the  nightingale, 
A  tone  within  the  colour  of  all  buds 
Bursting  to  May,  an  under-harmony 
Sung  by  the  wind  among  the  apple- trees; 
Then  there  was  nearness  of  the  leaning  clouds, 
As  though  the  sky  had  opened  like  a  field 
Of  sheep  that  claimed  me  for  the  shepherding; 
Last  came  the  voices  and  great  Michael's  face — 
I  may  not  speak  of  Michael! 

125 


Now  that  the  shame  is  lifted  from  the  land, 

And  down  in  old  Domremy  mothers  sing 

While  children  dance  about  the  magic  tree, 

Death  does  not  seem  unfriendly.     There's  a  place 

Within  the  wood,  smooth  and  all  green  with  grass; 

Thither  we  used  to  go  at  Holy  Day, 

And  on  a  mossy  stump  our  Pierre  would  sit 

Piping  for  us  a  joyous  little  tune, 

While  we  together  wove  a  moment's  dream 

Of  laughter  with  our  bodies — keeping  time 

Upon  the  grassy  floor  with  what  he  played. 

Ah,  Pierre!   the  angels  took  you  long  ago, 

And  often  through  the  voices  I  have  heard 

A  faint  sound  as  of  piping!     There's  a  hill 

Of  apricots  and  vines  that  called  me  first, 

When  I  was  but  a  little,  dreaming  child; 

Here  Michael  met  me  in  a  burst  of  light 

That  smote  the  vale  with  splendour  like  a  sword: 

There  was  no  voice  then,  only  sudden  light — 

A  light  that  dimmed  the  noon-day  sun  and  turned 

The  blue  sky  pallid. — Light!   thou  gavest  Joan 

A  wisdom  greater  than  the  lore  of  priests; 

Then  was  my  spirit  quickened,  and  I  knew 

All  mysteries  of  life:   I  whom  a  book 

Baffled,  read  what  was  written  on  the  grass; 

Listened  to  life,  and  caught  the  whispered  words 

Shaken  from  rain-drops  by  the  laughing  leaves; 

Ran  down  the  hollow  of  the  hills  and  heard 

Voices  beneath  the  clover,  under  stones, 


126 


And  saw  a  multitude  of  spirit-hands 

That  beckoned  from  the  branches  of  the  trees. 

How  they  who  sought  to  prove  me  one  bewitched, 
Have  pondered:    Whence  hath  this  poor  peasant  maid 
Such  wisdom! — God  of  Michael  from  the  mist; 
God  of  my  angel  with  the  ready  sword 
Swift  from  its  scabbard,  an  uplifted  flame 
Against  oppression;  by  the  mouths  of  babes 
And  sucklings  Thou  hast  ever  ordained  strength! 
Upon  the  prayers  of  mothers  and  of  maids, 
The  War  Lords  of  the  world  shall  not  prevail; 
For  God  is  with  the  gentle  things  of  earth, 
With  those  who  wear  the  armour  of  His  love, 
And  gird  their  loins  for  service  in  His  name! 

Whence  came  the  voices?    Friend,  do  you  not  know 

That  earth  is  but  a  vestibule  of  veils 

Before  the  House  not  made  with  human  hands! 

About  us  there  are  spirit-presences 

Who  know  that  we  have  need;  they  reach  to  us 

With  longing,  but  the  veils  prevent  their  touch; 

They  call  to  us,  and  we  go  wondering: 

Whence  came  my  sudden  joy  that  conquers  grief? 

O  sleepy  sense  of  touch  that  can  not  feel ! 

O  mortal  deafness  that  will  never  hear! 

O  eyes  of  earth  that,  seeing,  do  not  see! 

God  gave  us  flowers  and  the  patient  trees; 

Mirrored  the  moon  against  a  crystal  sky; 

Fashioned  the  stars  from  sun-gold  in  the  west, 

127 


Hung  them  beneath  the  roof  of  all  the  world, 
Till  morning  melts  them  back  again  to  mist: 
God  gave  us  these,  and  with  them  children's  eyes, 
And  ears,  and  hearts,  that  we  might  wake  to  touch, 
Sight,  sound  of  angels!     Foolish  mitred  men, 
What  do  ye,  with  your  learning,  understand? 
I  have  talked  with  the  angels,  and  I  know! 

Now  that  fair  France  lifts  up  her  lilied  head 
To  greet  Time  with  her  laughter,  and  unveils 
To  kiss  the  mouth  of  Fortune,  Death  will  come 
Softly  at  day-break,  calling  unto  Joan. 
I  shall  not  fear  the  faggots  and  the  stake; 
The  folded  arms  upon  the  breast,  the  stare 
Of  eyes  that  lust  to  look  at  innocence 
Robed  with  red  draperies  of  clinging  flame; 
For  Michael  will  be  waiting  for  my  soul! 
Together  we  shall  dare  the  paths  of  space; 
Find  Pierre  piping  on  his  appointed  star 
Among  the  flowers  that  he  loved  so  well, 
Glad  of  my  coming,  swift  to  sing  me  home: 
And  from  the  music  that  we  make  on  high, 
There  shall  be  in  the  heart  of  France — a  song ! 


128 


GIORDANO  BRUNO 


GIORDANO  BRUNO 

THE  Monk  of  Nola  is  indeed  no  more; 
His  cell  is  empty,  and  the  threefold  cord 
Hangs  with  its  cowl  beside  Saint  Peter's  sword ! 
Vainly  the  Vatican  leans  on  the  lore 
Of  Councils;  what  was  everywhere  of  yore 
Held  by  the  faithful,  and  with  one  accord, 
Yields  to  the  moment  of  his  mighty  word, 
Who  looked  not  always  after  but  before. 

Rise  from  your  ashes  where  yon  statue  stands 
In  Campo  di  flora!    Bruno,  speak 
That  word  of  thunder  to  the  world  abroad: 
Man  is  the  Sacrament  made  by  Christ's  hands; 
He  is,  of  life's  ascending  slope,  the  peak — 
The  crown — the  consummation  of  his  God! 


130 


GIORDANO  BRUNO 

Even  thou,  Giovanni,  my  familiar  friend 
In  whom  I  trusted?     What!   thou  art  afraid 
To  look  at  me?    Do  Bruno's  eyes  hurt  thee? 
Nay,  do  not  hide  behind  the  chasubles 
Of  Holy  Inquisition;  speak  thy  mind, 
And  tell  the  Fathers  that  which  they  would  know: 
How  certain  books  I  wrote  traduce  the  creeds 
Of  Mother  Church! 

What  pleasant  nights  we  spent 
Within  thy  palace;  what  discourse  we  had 
While  others  slept,  and  I  led  thee  beyond 
The  crystal  spheres  of  old  to  boundless  space! 
What  moved  thee,  O  Venetian,  to  betray 
Thy  friend?  .  .  .     Nay,  mutter  not,  nor  cross  thyself! 
Giordano  hath  not  made  a  covenant 
With  devils !  .  .  .    Yea,  my  Father,  read  the  charge. 

So  that  is  what  my  accusation  saith? 
The  Monk  of  Nola  is  indeed  no  more! 
He  was  a  curious  boy  who  loved  to  look, 
Without  distraction  of  crude,  painted  things 
Hung  on  the  wall,  tarnished  by  candle-smoke, 
Out  of  the  window  where  he  knelt  to  pray; 
For  he  had  learned  that  God  is  not  confined 
In  paint  and  mortar,  that  He  is  revealed, 
As  the  Apostle  saith,  through  what  He  made. 
He  found  no  virtue  in  a  Saint's  thighbone; 

131 


No  miracle  in  the  Madonna's  face 
Above  her  altar,  when  the  sanctus  bell 
Rings  and  a  wafer  is  become  the  Christ! 
Yea,  rather  was  he  caught  within  the  loops 
Of  light  thrown  by  the  stars  among  the  vines, 
Or  fastened  by  the  many-coloured  cords 
Of  sunrise.     Noonday  magic  on  the  grapes; 
The  crickets  chirping  where  the  wheat  is  ripe; 
The  call  of  birds;  the  river's  ancient  song; 
Trees  and  the  carnival  of  summer-flowers; 
Claimed  Bruno  when  he  tried  to  be  a  monk. 

Then  came  Copernicus!     At  first  I  laughed, 
Railing  with  many  words:    What!     Earth  so  fixed— 
The  central  point  of  heaven,  round  which  the  sun 
Wheels  and  stars  turn — a  floating  sphere  in  space? 
Then  reason  woke  within  me  and  I  found 
Copernicus  was  right,  and  went  one  step 
Past  my  new  master — taught  that  nothing  bounds 
The  universe  but  law. 

Nature  is  one. 

One  purpose  weaves  the  weft  within  the  warp 
Of  matter,  though  the  stuff  be  molten  suns, 
Or  atoms  in  the  amethyst  that  gleams 
Upon  the  finger  of  His  Grace — my  judge! 

When  I  was  but  a  boy  at  Nola,  fond 
Of  roving,  on  a  summer  day  I  climbed 

132 


. 

The  hill  Cicada;  from  its  height  I  saw 
Vesuvius  was  like  a  cone  of  grey, 
In  contrast  with  the  vineyards  at  my  feet: 
Later  I  stood  above  Pompeii,  found 
My  hill  was  changed  to  barren,  rocky  slopes; 
Round  me  were  many  blossoms  and  the  vines! 
I  learned  by  this  illusion  of  the  eyes, 
To  challenge  sense  with  reason — prove  no  fact 
By  feeling — Fathers,  is  that  heresy? 
He  is  an  infidel  who  dares  to  bound 
God's  might!    Take  now  a  creed  of  Mother  Church- 
The  Mother  whom  I  love — hold  ye  one  thought 
That  cramps  Creation  and  Omnipotence? 
Then  ye  are  heretic.     Find  God  in  Nature, 
As  ye  discover  artists  by  their  work. 

Ponder  the  lilies  of  the  field,  said  Christ. 

0  Priests  of  Venice!   ye  who  try  me  here 
Against  my  death  at  Rome  for  heresy, 
What  do  ye  know  of  lilies?     can  ye  tell 
The  monk  of  Nola  how  the  lilies  grow? 

1  knew  them  ere  I  learned  to  sing  High  Mass, 
Or  hear  confession  and  expound  the  Book! 

If  only  ye  seek  God  beyond  the  stars, 

How  can  ye  hope  to  find  Him  Who  is  near? 

If  ye  disdain  the  portico  of  heaven, 

How  can  ye  love  the  House  not  made  with  hands, 

Eternal  in  the  heavens?     Oh,  how  ye  rob 

Life  of  its  joy!    How  narrow  is  the  world 

Wherein  ye  move!    Your  sky  is  but  a  dome 

133 


Of  hammered  brass  alight  with  holy  wicks 

Placed  in  the  great  concave;  your  moon  a  lamp 

Borne  in  procession  round  the  altar — earth! 

God's  truth!    ye  think  as  though  the  universe 

Were  Peter's  Church  at  Rome,  and  all  the  flowers 

Are  waxen — though  the  world  is  white  with  bloom! 

I  break  the  dome,  and  exorcise  the  fear 

That  haunts  the  faith  of  men;  I  say  to  them: 

God  stands  closer  to  us  than  we  to  self. 

He  is  the  Soul  of  our  soul,  He  unites 

All  Nature.     Grain  of  incense,  drop  of  oil, 

Hath  Him  as  much  as  any  Holy  Mass! 

Lift  up  a  broken  oleander  stalk, 

A  wheaten  straw,  a  pebble  round  and  smooth 

And  ye  have  lifted  high  the  very  Host! 

Man  is  the  Mass;  therein  God's  love  transforms 

The  elements — making  of  them  His  flesh! 

God  is  existence;  everything  is  God. 

Pain,  suffering,  and  sin — aye,  death  itself — 

Are  shadows  creeping  down  Vesuvius, 

When  the  sun  rises;  shadows  disappear 

At  noontide  glory,  life  is  at  the  morn; 

Therefore  these  glooms  against  the  mounting  sun 

Fade  fast,  as  men  are  more  aware  of  God: 

When  life  has  reached  its  zenith,  there  will  be 

No  shadow  anywhere  of  pain  and  sin, 

For  all  will  share  its  glad  meridian! 

Now,  Fathers,  will  ye  send  me  bound  to  Rome — 
A  prisoner,  like  Paul,  of  Jesus  Christ, 

134 


And  doomed  to  die  for  witness  of  my  word? 

Wherein  is  Bruno  heretic?    What  truth 

Have  ye  which  I  hold  not,  and  even  more? 

Yea,  all  that  is  contained  within  the  Creeds 

And  Councils  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church, 

Giordano  holds.     But  faith  transcends  both  creed 

And  council,  is  the  evidence  of  things 

Not  seen.     Is  faith  the  journey  or  the  road? 

Faith  is  the  pilgrim  with  a  scrip  and  staff, 

Taking  all  roads  at  pleasure.     Is  the  Church 

Weak  as  to  fabric,  that  the  stake  must  stand 

Forever  as  the  symbol  of  her  strength? 

Dogma  that  must  be  buttressed  by  the  ban 

Of  excommunication  is  not  truth! 

Who  hates  in  the  defence  of  what  he  holds, 

Or  drops  one  bitter  word  against  the  name 

Of  his  antagonist  can  not  be  true: 

The  calm  of  Christ  before  Ca!aphas; 

Paul's  manner  with  the  Areopagus; 

All  martyred  love:   bear  witness  to  my  word. 

And  so  ye  have  condemned  me!    Venice  gives 
My  body  unto  Rome — this  night,  perchance, 
Or  on  the  morrow,  I  must  take  the  road 
Of  martyrdom  to  Rome — how  many  more 
Must  travel  that  same  road,  because  their  faith 
Is  overmuch!     But  old  skins  ever  fail 
New  wine,  and  from  the  Branch — Copernicus — 
Thought-clusters    hang,   which     from    the    press    of 
Time 

135 


Will  pour  fermenting  liquor  to  destroy 

Your  moulded  bottles.     Bind  me  to  the  stake; 

Scatter  my  ashes  on  the  Tiber's  tide; 

The  world  will  kneel  in  tears  for  what  ye  did! 


136 


DARWIN 


DARWIN 

ETERNAL  night  and  solitude  of  space; 
Breath  as  of  vapour  crimsoning  to  flame; 
Far  constellations  moving  in  the  same 
Invariable  order  and  the  pace 
That  times  the  sun,  or  earth's  elliptic  race 
Among  the  planets:     Life — dumb,  blind  and  laim 
Creeping  from  form  to  form,  until  her  shame 
Blends  with  the  beauty  of  a  human  face! 

Death  can  not  claim  what  Life  so  hardly  won 
Out  of  her  ancient  warfare  with  the  Void — 
O  Man!   whose  day  is  only  now  begun, 
Go  forth  with  her  and  do  what  she  hath  done; 
Till  thy  last  enemy — Death — be  destroyed, 
And  earth  outshine  the  splendour  of  the  sun. 


138 


DARWIN 

Alfred,  I  am  a  withered  leaf — a  twig 

Dry  of  the  sap;  yet  how  I  love  the  picture! 

Is  heaven  less  blue  because  the  stellar  dust 

Veils  night  eternal  from  all  human  eyes? 

Life  is,  though  forms  pass:  well,  I  will  regard 

One  moment  filled  with  wonder  of  the  world, 

Forever  worth  the  passing,  when  this  jar 

Crumbles!     .  .  .  Why  do  you  nod  in  protest,  friend? 

I  am  serene  and  patient,  grateful,  glad — 

Asking  no  more  of  life  than  what  it  gives: 

Eyes  quick  to  see  the  march  out  of  the  mist, 

And  into  mist  once  more;  ears  that  are  tuned 

To  music  of  the  many  strings  of  joy 

And  sorrow;  tongue  so  wistful  of  the  word 

Telling  the  truth;  obedient  hands  and  feet; 

And  over  all,  the  mind  with  wings  that  soar! 

I  trust,  ask  nothing,  watch  meanwhile,  and  wait; 

Whatever  is  for  me  to  win,  no  one 

Can  take:     if  there  be  not  some  afterword, 

Some  music  and  a  flower  from  the  feast, 

A  going  up  the  hall  with  Him,  my  Host, 

In  conversation  as  of  comrades — well, 

Enough  that  I  was  called  to  sup  with  Hun, 

Drank  from  His  cup  and  pledged  the  world  with  wine! 

My  fundamentals  are  misunderstood — 
Is  the  fault  mine?     'Tis  not  a  ready  pen 
That  wrote  The  Origin.    The  many  reeds 

139 


Of  melody  were  never  mine;  I  saw 
More  than  I  had  the  skill  to  tell,  confused 
The  music.     This  my  meaning:     Chaos  bears 
To  that  eternal  Energy  called  God, 
A  child  whose  name  is  Form,  swaddled  with  clouds, 
"And  with  no  language  but  a  cry!" — the  noise 
Of  thunder,  telling  of  vast,  molten  seas 
Which  clamour,  till  the  child  becomes  a  star- 
This  planet — swinging  through  the  zodiac 
Among  his  brethren  who  come,  crying:     Hail, 
Child  of  our  mother  Chaos!    From  the  sea 
Huge  shapes  appear,  plunging  to  rocky  shores 
Forbidding  them  the  land,  till  tail  and  fin 
By  aspiration  change  to  foot  and  wing. 
Hoarse  trumpetings  of  anger  or  of  pain; 
Red  ooze  of  blood  on  bracken;  now  tell  the  tale: 
Struggle  of  Form  with  Form — experiment 
Of  Nature  working  blindly  but  in  faith 
To  one  end:    Mind!    Love  dominates  the  chords; 
There  is  a  song  upon  the  star-lit  hills : 
GLORY  TO   GOD!    ON  EARTH,  PEACE   AND   GOOD 
WILL! 

Brave  are  your  words  of  war;  and  yet  I  think 
Survival  of  the  worst,  not  best,  is  in 
Those  passioned  hymns  of  praise:   war's  work  was  done, 
Through  struggle  of  the  fittest  brute,  when  Form 
Was  found  for  Mind.     You  say  that  always  war 
Genders  the  noblest?     calls  a  god  from  clay? 
That  work  was  done  before  the  glacial  glare 

140 


Rivalled  the  redness  of  yon  setting  sun ! 
You  are  at  odds  with  Nature,  who  destroy 
Man's  body.     Is  there  not  some  higher  test 
Of  greatness  in  the  patience  of  that  faith 
Which  dares  adventure  on  forgotten  roads, 
Or  hidden  trails  unfound  by  human  feet, 
To  find  God  cradled  where  the  cattle  are? 
Must  we  who  sought  and  found,  go  lonely  back 
Without  Love's  offering  of  gold  and  myrrh — 
Back  to  the  place  we  knew  before  the  star 
Came  softly  from  the  silences  of  night? 
How  worth  the  painful  journeying,  to  cry: 
/  have  seen  God  upon  His  mother's  breast! 

Never  have  I  been  atheist — the  fool 
Hath  said  within  his  heart,  ttiere  is  no  God! 
God  may  hide  in  the  mass;  may  look  on  life 
Through  eyes  that  slowly  opened,  until  man 
Gazed  in  the  artist  and  the  seer,  and  said : 
How  beautiful!  how  good!  but  I  hold  not 
With  those  who  cry:   Behold  God  in  the  Book! 
If  there  be  God,  He  must  be  always  One; 
Must  not  be  hid  by  this,  revealed  in  that; 
Must  be  unchanging,  like  unchanging  law 
Which  keeps  the  constellations  in  their  place, 
Holds  atom  unto  atom.     Bud  and  blade, 
Frond,  leaf  and  petal  are  obedient 
Each  to  its  character;  and,  like  the  suns, 
Depart  not  from  the  course,  by  law  ordained, 
Up  the  ascent  of  life.     God  is  in  Nature— 

141 


There  only  may  we  find  Him.     Did  she  fail 

To  make  Him  known  to  man,  then  would  man  be 

Apart  from  her  and  alien  to  the  earth. 

God  has  not  ceased  to  walk  down  garden  paths. 

He  has  not  grown  a-weary  of  the  rose. 

He  is  not  deaf  to  lifted  song  of  leaves, 

What  time  the  artist  comes  for  tinting  them 

Out  of  his  ample  shards  of  autumn-tones. 

God  is  the  lover  of  all  open  wings, 

Of  all  who  glorify  the  world  with  song. 

There  are  no  moments  of  the  infinite; 

All  things  come  to  their  growth  by  Nature's  law — 

A  star,  a  planet,  species  or  the  soul; 

Therefore,  I  wait,  make  no  assertions,  stand 

Humble  before  the  mystery  of  life  and  death — 

The  pillars  of  that  portico  whose  doors 

Are  shut;  though  from  the  steps  I  may  look  down 

To  trace  the  winding  path  up  which  I  toiled, 

And  view  my  halting  places:     There  I  slept, 

Dreaming  a  while;  there  I  rose  with  a  laugh, 

Made  strong  by  what  I  dreamed,  and  took  the  road. 

How  many  mile-stones  we  have  passed,  my  friend, 

In  our  long  journey  to  the  double-door! 

Will  that  door  open,  Alfred?   shall  we  see, 

One  day,  the  Good  Host  standing  in  the  hall 

With  waiting  hands  and  lips  of  love  that  smile? 


142 


VOICE  OF  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 


VOICE  OF  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

VOICE  of  our  Century,  whose  heart  is  broken, 
Weeping  for  those  who  will  not  come  again — 
Lord  Christ!   hast  thou  been  crucified  in  vain? — 
Challenge  the  right  of  every  Tyrant's  token: 
The  fist  of  mail;  the  sceptre;  ancient,  oaken 
Coffers  of  gold  for  which  thy  sons  are  slain; 
The  pride  of  place,  which  from  the  days  of  Cain 
Hath  for  the  empty  right  of  Power  spoken ! 

Be  like  a  trumpet  blown  from  clouds  of  doom 
Against  whatever  seeks  to  bind  on  earth; 
Bring  from  the  blood  of  battle,  from  the  womb 
Of  women  weeping  for  their  dead,  the  birth 
Of  better  days  with  banishment  of  wrong, 
Love  in  all  hearts,  on  every  lip — a  song. 


144 


VOICE  OF  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

In  much  I  am  Agnostic,  hold  against 
Fine  definitions  of  the  ancient  creeds, 
Keep  back  from  dogma  and  forego  the  Church ; 
But  this  I  have  through  many  searchings  found: 
A  Will  at  work  on  Man's  deep  truest  self— 
A  Power  that  is  not  Nature's  central  Flame, 
Yet  works  with  it.     This  Will  is  in  the  Law 
Called  Evolution,  and  this  Will  is  God! 
It  hides  in  Matter — is  the  Principle 
That  leads  the  atom  out  of  the  electron 
Up  through  amoeba  till  it  ends  in  Man. 
Man  is  a  mile-stone  on  the  slow  ascent 
Whose  summits  are  encompassed  by  a  mist. 
We  may  look  back  a  little  down  the  path 
By  which  we  came,  and  we  may  look  ahead 
Dimly  to  guess  what  stations  lie  beyond; 
But  we  must  not  be  certain,  for  we  walk 
By  Faith  and  not  by  Sight. 

I  plead  emancipation  from  the  Church, 
The  tyranny  of  Priests  who  blind  the  eyes 
Of  Wisdom,  threat  and  ban  all  those  who  seek 
Truth  in  the  moment — not  in  yesterdays. 
I  plead  deliverance  from  Diplomats 
And  lying  Warders  of  the  State,  who  draw 
Nations  to  battle  for  the  gold  that  buys 
Grafter  and  Sycophant.     I  plead  the  right 
Of  Workmen  to  the  wage  commensurate 

145 


With  the  expense  of  living;   plead  the  right 
Of  women  to  a  place  with  men  in  all 
That  touches  life,  of  children  to  good  food, 
Pure  air,  laughter  and  play;  I  plead  the  right 
To  think  and  give  expression  to  my  thought. 

Man's  night  is  now  behind  him  and  the  day 

Leaps  up  in  glory  burgeoning  the  hills. 

What  lies  behind  us  is  the  nursery 

With  babies'  baubles  scattered  on  the  floor — 

Toy  soldiers,  arks  and  pictured  fairy  books — 

The  Man  smiles  kindly  at  them  as  he  goes 

Forth  to  his  labour!    There  is  much  to  do: 

The  winding  trails  of  ancient  Ignorance 

Must  be  made  straight — a  highway  for  the  King; 

The  hills  that  threatened  us  must  be  brought  low; 

For  there  are  songs  of  gladness  in  the  wrind, 

There  is  a  chord  of  music  from  the  trees — 

A  noise  of  distant  thunder  that  proclaims 

The  coming  of  the  God  whose  name  is  Man! 


146 


A     000  106  704     o 


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